


Trust My Aim

by mssrj_335



Series: Sing Me the Blues [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (not between S and G), ALL THE ANGST APPARENTLY, Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Assassin Gabriel, Blues AU, Blues Singer Sam, Bossy Bottom Gabriel, FEEEEELLLIIIINNNNGS, Gabriel-Centric, Guaranteed happy ending, Gun Wounds, Guns, Hurt Gabriel, Kidnapping, Language, Lust to love, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mentions of past injury, PTSD scenarios, Pining, Realizations of Love, Scars, Secret Government Organizations, Smut, Top Sam, WWII reminiscing, actually more feelsy than originally thought, depictions of violence, discussions of depression, dorky ending, elements of torture, feelings of worthlessness, non-con restraining, timeline squishing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-04-29 16:33:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 42,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5134796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mssrj_335/pseuds/mssrj_335
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Third in I've Got the Blues (To Die For) Series. Could probably be read as a stand-alone. </p><p>Gabriel's quiet vacation with Sam is drawn to an abrupt close when he receives his next assignment.  Of course, nothing goes as planned.  With one notorious mobster's henchmen on his heels, Gabriel must find a way to keep Sam safe as enemies come from the shadows.  And, he must repair the damage that he has done.  The feelings that have been building from the start must be dealt with and, if nothing else, he must prove to Sam that he can trust him again.  </p><p>Or else lose him completely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Messenger

**Author's Note:**

> Let's start happy so you can hate me more later! :D

The doorbell chimed and Gabriel groaned. Jesus hell, what time was it? And who the _fuck_ was coming around at this hour? He squinted at the clock on Sam’s bedside table in the gloom. 5:45. He heaved a sigh when the doorbell rang again and wriggled out from under Sam's arm. Gabriel paused for a moment, looking fondly at the sleeping man over his shoulder.  It wasn't fair, really, that the rest of the world had to compete with Sam Winchester.  Even asleep, he was more attractive than should be considered legal.  Gabriel's eyes slipped low until he shook his head to dispel the naughty ideas floating in his brain.  Then, he made for the front door, slipping on a shirt from the floor and snagging his gun from the table.

 

The doorbell rang a third time.  “I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” he groused.  He carefully tucked his gun back into the waistband of his underwear and peered through the peephole.  It was a bike messenger. He frowned and yanked the door open.

 

"What?"

 

The messenger gave him an exasperated look. “Telegram for Gabriel Novak,” he said, brandishing an envelope.

 

Gabriel’s frown deepened and he snatched the envelope. “Hang on.”

 

He shuffled back inside and chucked the envelope onto the table.  Grabbing a few coins from the change bowl in Sam’s kitchen, he handed them to the messenger and shut the door. When he heard the cyclist grumble and move on, Gabriel eyed the envelope suspiciously. Nothing good ever came of telegrams these days, and he had a sinking feeling of who it might be. His gun clunked dully on the wood table as he sank into a chair and ripped open the envelope.

 

Fuck.

 

From just the letterhead alone, Gabriel knew he was screwed. Or, at least, screwed out of the nice little holiday he’d been taking with Sam. He read through the telegram quickly, memorizing the details of his next assignment. Once he was sure on the info, he grabbed a lighter from the kitchen and lit the damn thing on fire. He washed the ashes down the sink and shuffled back to the bathroom, scratching his stomach. Careful not to wake Sam, he cranked the shower on hot and stepped inside.

 

The trip was gonna be a long one. Target was in Texas, for fuck’s sake, and that’d take at least fourteen hours to drive. Gabriel lathered up some of Sam’s earthy patchouli soap and thought about what he would need. Get a car with the Agency in Chicago, pick up some more ammo and maybe a few extra weapons, set up surveillance—

 

Gabriel froze when he heard the bathroom door creak open. He twisted the washcloth tight in his fingers, ready to fit it around the intruder’s neck.  Then, he heard a soft, graveled voice call, “Gabe?”

 

He relaxed. Just Sam, button shirt open and askew. He unwound the washcloth and stuck his head out of the shower curtain with a smile. Sam was slouching against the doorjamb with a hand propped against the trim, hair knotted on one side.

 

“What’re you doin’?” Sam mumbled as he stepped into the bathroom, letting his shirt slide off his shoulders.

 

“Cleaning up, cupcake,” Gabriel said, appreciatively eyeing Sam’s legs as he pulled his underwear down.

 

Sam grumbled as he stepped into the shower behind Gabriel.  He wrapped the assassin up in his arms despite the soap in Gabe’s hair and the water in his face.

 

“Did I hear the doorbell?” Sam asked, stifling a yawn in his lover’s neck.

 

Gabriel smiled soft and twisted in the taller man’s grip to pull him down for a tender kiss. “Just a messenger, sugar.”

 

Despite the sleep muddling his brain, Sam frowned and worked that thought through. “For you? I didn’t know anyone knew you were here.”

 

Gabriel pulled a neutral face. He hated lying to Sam; he was a sweet guy and, for certain, he didn’t deserve it.  But, Gabriel knew a bad idea when he saw one.  And it was _definitely_ a bad idea to tell a man with a heart of gold that he killed people for a living.

 

“Just a quick note from work,” Gabriel said, feeling Sam’s hands stroke up and down his back. There. That wasn’t exactly a lie. Sam frowned again but let it go.  He grabbed the washcloth from Gabriel’s hands and scrubbed his back instead.

 

The past two weeks had really been something else. Slow, sweet sex filled the mornings and watching Sam in the clubs stole in the evenings. Gabriel made a game of it, almost.  Fucking Sam so well during the day that the singer’s voice ended wrecked and _perfect_.  Then, when he sang, crowds of people just threw themselves at him. Of course, people threw themselves at Sam anyway.  Gabriel had to ignore the little burn of jealousy that grew in his stomach. Sam wasn’t his to keep, not really.

 

“Stop thinking,” Sam said, voice low in Gabriel’s ear, “and come back to bed.”

 

Gabriel hesitated for only a moment until Sam’s teeth nipped _that_ spot.  Then, there wasn’t much else to be thinking. He stumbled out of the shower and dried, dragging the man back to the bedroom and pushing him onto the mattress. Sam was smirking at him from the nest of covers, pleased with himself.

 

“Oh, you’re gonna get it now,” Gabriel growled.

 

He grabbed a couple ties from the hamper in the corner and returned to the bed. He straddled Sam’s hips, relishing the soft groan that escaped his mouth, then held the ties up for Sam to see.

 

“Feelin’ adventurous today, sugar?” he asked, teasing the end of a tie down Sam’s chest.

 

Sam’s eyes widened a little, pulse jumping in his neck; Gabriel could have snarled in success.  A large part of him was ridiculously pleased how Sam’s erection hardened against him.

 

“What’d you have in mind?” Sam drawled, rolling his hips up slow and easy.

 

Gabriel wanted to hiss, just get on with it and sink down onto the man, but he kept his cool and a straight face instead.

 

“Wanna learn some knots?  Other than the ones I've been puttin' you in?” he smirked, looking Sam up and down with lascivious eyes.

 

Sam’s pupils went wide and he nodded furiously. Gabriel smirked and pressed Sam’s wrists against the cool brass of the headboard. His knot tying skills weren’t anything like those of his compatriots, but he was nothing to sneeze at. Especially not when it came to these kinds of knots. He carefully secured Sam’s hands just above his head with slip knots, just out of the reach of his fingers.  Then, he kissed his way down Sam’s long body, drawing out quiet moans from his mouth. His lover pulled against the ties and huffed when he couldn’t move.

 

“Where the hell’d you learn to tie knots like this, Mr. Investment Banker?” Sam asked in a tight, lustful voice.

 

Gabriel smirked against the soft skin of Sam’s stomach, feeling the muscles ripple and shift underneath as the singer squirmed. “Girl’s gotta have her secrets,” he said as he pressed a kiss to the hollow of Sam’s hip.

 

“Seems like you have…oh a lot—ah of secrets,” Sam ground out while Gabriel moved down, pressing his tongue to the underside of his cock and licking a long, hot stripe up the length of him. “Oh, fuck—”

 

Gabriel slipped the head of Sam’s cock into his mouth and sucked in a light, teasing pressure, watching Sam’s muscle strain against the fabric of his ties. Gabriel had the fleeting thought that Sam could have made one hell of an assassin if he’d wanted to, what with all that restrained power and grace, but he squashed that quick. No, god knows a lifetime of killin’ people would have broken him after a while.  Gabriel recoiled at the thought. Sam didn’t deserve that, and Gabriel sure as hell didn’t deserve him.

 

But, fuck it. Gabriel had decided he was nothing if not a hedonist; it kinda came with the job description. He pushed his overhanging guilt down and buried it, sucking Sam all the way down instead. He felt Sam’s groan reverberate in his teeth and couldn’t help but smirk. Maybe the morning wasn’t off to such a bad start after all…


	2. Supply Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a filler, but bonus character! One of my favorites! I sincerely hope she's sassy enough and that you're not too bored. Action guaranteed next chapter

A couple thoroughly sated hours later and Gabriel was watching Sam putter about the kitchen making breakfast over a cup of coffee.  Sam’d even made his cup as sweet as he usually liked, no prompting needed.  But as he started mixing batter for pancakes, Gabriel figured it was time to tell the kid he’d have to leave.  He felt a burn of disappointment in his throat.  The days had started blending together in a happy semblance of domesticity.  Sam was charming, clever, and an incredibly generous lover, and Gabriel found himself disinclined to leave.  As much as he touted being impossible to tie down, and as much as his reputation confirmed that, he felt…peaceful, here with Sam.  He reluctantly gulped down the rest of his coffee and stared at the kitchen table.

 

“So,” he started.  “Looks like I’m gonna head out of town for a while.”

 

Gabriel peeked, and saw Sam had stopped mixing the batter for a moment and was looking at him over his shoulder.  “For work?” Sam asked, tentative.

 

Gabriel hummed in agreement as he got up and poured himself another cup of coffee, standing close to Sam.  He could make out wrinkles in Sam’s brow and an unhappy pinch to his mouth in his profile even as he continued stirring the batter.  Gabriel leaned forward and pressed his cheek to Sam’s shoulder.  “But I’d love to see you again,” he murmured apologetically into Sam’s shirt.

 

Sam smiled a little and bent to press a tender kiss to Gabriel cheek.  “I’d like that,” he said.

 

Gabriel gave him a crooked smile and set his coffee cup down on the counter.  “So, what’s on the agenda for today?” he asked, wrapping his arms around Sam’s narrow waist.

 

He watched the dimples crease Sam’s cheeks when the singer smiled and felt something warm bloom in his chest.

 

“I’m at Turner’s tonight,” Sam said, almost shyly. “I’m opening, for Jimmy Reed.”  

 

Gabriel whistled low.  Turner’s Blues Lounge was one of the biggest and best places to perform on the south side of Chicago.  Anyone who’s anybody wanted to play there and it was a career make or break.  The audiences could be tough, but if you entertained the right people, you could end up with a whole lotta cash in your pocket.  He let Sam go with a fond grab of his ass and settled back at the table with his cup of coffee.  

 

“How’d you land that?” he asked around the lip of his coffee cup.  

 

“They liked me over at the last club, I guess,” Sam said with an exasperated smile. “Got to talkin’ with the owner after the show then got a call last week from Turner’s.  They’re gonna give me a good cut and good stage time.”

 

Gabriel felt his stomach sink.  “Well, shit, sweetheart.  I’m sorry I can’t be here to see ya.  You are sure somethin’ else when you’re up there on that stage.”

 

Sam ducked his head and chuckled, dolloping batter onto the frying pan.  The smell of blueberries started wafting through the air and the pancakes began to sizzle.  Gabriel felt disappointment coil in his gut, and he was surprised.  Usually, the prospect of a new job brightened his day, gave him something to look forward to.  Now, the it seemed like a weight around his ankles.  

 

“S’alright,” Sam said, shrugging his broad shoulders and flipping the pancakes.  “Would you get the syrup?”

 

Gabriel swallowed another mouthful of coffee and nodded, fishing the syrup, butter, and peanut butter out of the fridge next to Sam.  He dutifully set the condiments on the table, then he turned to the singer as he set a plateful of hot pancakes down.  Gabriel pulled the taller man close, fitting a knee between his long legs and pressing him back against the cabinets.  Then, he angled Sam’s face down for another kiss.  

 

“You know I’d be there if I could, right?” the assassin asked, voice.  

 

Sam’s eyes widened, and a small, pleased smile broke out over his face.  “Gabe, you don’t have to come to all my shows.  I get that you’re busy.  I mean, you can’t be on vacation forever.”

 

Gabriel frowned.  “But I would,” he insisted.  “I like you, sweetheart.”

 

Sam’s cheeks colored and Gabriel pecked another kiss on his neck.  “Thanks for breakfast, Sam.”

 

 

 

 

Gabriel waited until Sam left to go to the club later in the evening, promising he’d be back in a few days and generally making a nuisance of himself when Sam tried to get ready.  More than once, he managed to trap the singer and get him back out of his clothes in no time at all.  

 

At last, Sam extricated himself from Gabriel’s grip and made his way down the stoop.  Sam had blushed and refused Gabriel’s promises of apology gifts before he kissed him one last time and folded himself into his car.  Gabriel sighed to himself, watching Sam drive away before he gathered his things and called a taxi to the First Municipal District.  

 

 

 

 

 

The building wasn’t hard to find; it was getting in that was the trick.  Gabriel strolled easy down Washington Street and looked surreptitiously at the buildings around.  Then, he stopped at a sign reading ‘Emergency Exit’.  Turning back to the dark double back doors of Morningstar, Inc., he punched an identification number in a keypad secreted in the wall.  The door unlocked with a clink and allowed him to step into a stark, polished elevator.  Had an actual Morningstar employee—or anyone else—tried to get in, the double doors would have remained locked and the police would have arrived in no time at all.  

 

Once he was inside, a panel on the door slid open and prompted another code.  Second line of defense: put in the wrong code or take too long and the floor would fall out from under you.  The elevator shuddered for a moment after he hit the access key, then lurched downward to the basement of the building, floors intact.  It stopped with a soft ding, and Gabriel strode out onto the mech floor of the Agency.  

 

Technicians chattered and some of the newest toys they’d been cobbling together wheezed or sparked as Gabriel passed them on his way to the back office.  He peered in the bulletproof windows and smiled when saw just the person he needed sitting hunched over a large metal desk.

 

“Honey, I’m home!” he said with a smirk as he pushed the door open.  

 

A dark-complected woman with sharp eyes and a sharper smile shot him a dirty look.  “Go away, Loki.  I’m busy,” she said, staring at the pistol she was soldering pieces to.

 

“Oh!  You wound me, Kali,” Gabriel declared with mock hurt, flinging a hand over his heart.  “All I wanted was a little hello.”

 

Kali's eyes narrowed.  “And a handful of weapons to lose again?” she asked venomously, brandishing the soldering iron in his direction.

 

Gabriel put his hands up in a show of innocence.  “Now, now, you never told me you were so attached to them.  I wouldn’t have lost them if I’d known that!”

 

Kali scoffed.  “I’m certain you would have lost them on purpose if I’d told you that,” she spat.  “I’m the chief weapons designer, you ass, of course I’m attached to them.”

 

Gabriel shrugged and bent over the desk to stare at whatever she was working on.  He cocked his head and couldn’t make heads or tails of what the hell she was doing, so he sighed loudly.

 

“Come on, all I need’s a few guns,” he whined.  

 

Kali looked at him skeptically, and he squirmed.

 

“And a car,” he added.

 

Kali snorted in disgust and finally put the soldering iron down.  “ _Fine_ ,” she said.  “If it’ll get you out of my hair.”

 

“Sweetheart, your hair’s too flawless for anything to get in it,” Gabriel said with a cheeky smile.  “Including me.”

 

Kali rolled her eyes and rose from the desk, heels clicking aggressively down the hall to the armory.  

 

“Five,” she said in a firm voice as she opened the door.  “You may take five.”

 

Gabriel winked and sauntered in, blowing a kiss at the surly face she gave him.  “Tell Baldur I’ll be down to get the car?”

 

It didn’t seem possible, but her expression soured even further.  “Who do you think I am?” she asked with an irritated toss of her head.  “Tell him yourself.”

 

With that, she slammed the door and clicked back down to her office.  Gabriel winced.  Well, it was his own damn fault she was irritated anyway.  Unscheduled, illicit vacations aside, he had lost her favorite toy taking out a kingpin in Mexico City.  She’d never quite forgiven him.  God, that woman could hold a grudge.  

 

Gabriel shook his head and perused the weapons cache with a critical eye.  Intel said his mark was one of Mickey Cohen’s higher-ups, looking to move their wares further east.  Sources indicated that the guy would be buying up some properties around Union Station in Dallas.  So, long range then.  He paused for a moment, feeling a pang at the thought of Texas.  And Sam, all dimpled smiles and sweet Texan drawl…  Fuck, maybe he was in deeper than he thought…

 

Gabriel grimaced and snagged a long canvas bag from the wall, trying to push Sam to the back of his mind and pick a gun.  He was never as good a shot from a long distance, and he didn’t have the long-range eye that Kali or Hermes did, but that didn’t mean he missed.  Really, couldn’t they come up with better code names?  He snorted and pulled a M1 Garand down from the rack.  He inspected the rifle before he tucked it, a scope, and a couple boxes of ammunition into the bag.  A few rows over, he snagged some .45s for his pistol and a few B1 explosive packs just in case.  Then again, he thought as he considered the explosives, with all the havoc he usually left after a job, maybe Loki was an appropriate name after all.

 

Gabriel slung the bag over his shoulder and snuck down to the garage.  If he could avoid Baldur—the chief mechanic—he could make off with the car of his choice.  And he had a very specific one in mind.  If he got caught, he’d be in the shit.  

 

The garage door creaked open, but a quick sweep said the coast was clear.  Most of the lot was dark, high priced cars sitting shiny next to plainer ones.  He crept to the desk and the key rack behind, carefully disentangling the set to his favorite car.  The keys clinked happily in the cavernous room and, as he rounded a corner, there she was.  His favorite car was a cherry red, hard top Corvette he’d named Charlene.  She was ostentatious, completely conspicuous, and she’d been shot all to shit the last time Gabriel had taken her out.  The look on Baldur’s face when they’d limped back in to Chicago had almost been worth all the damage she’d taken.  Almost.  

 

Gabriel ran a fond hand over the hood and unlocked the door quietly.  He shoved his bag into the passenger seat and, just as he settled in, the garage lights came up.  Grinning when he saw Baldur and the thunderous look on his face, he lit her up quick as you please and darted out of the garage, waving as he passed.  The Corvette accelerated with a deep purr and Gabriel smiled.  Despite the little empty pocket in his chest, it was good to be back.


	3. Messages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here! Have an extra, super short chapter. I couldn't make this fit anywhere else, but I felt like it needed to stay. So two updates today!

The Corvette rolled into Dallas about fourteen hours later, just as the evening sun started sinking under the horizon.  Gabriel stifled a yawn behind his hand and rolled into the first motel he could find.  He preferred flying to driving, but he’d yet to find a good way to haul a rucksack full of guns and explosives onto a plane without causing a panic.  Plus, the Corvette drove like a dream, and the Agency wouldn’t pay for his flight anyway.  He nosed into a space at the edge of the lot and, after wrangling a room key out of a surly manager, dropped his bags and stretched.  

 

The mark wasn’t supposed to be in town until tomorrow evening, so he had time to relax for now.  Gabriel eyed the bed warily and turned down the covers, making a quick check for bedbugs before he shed his clothes and tossed them on a chair in the corner.  Right now, a hot shower sounded heavenly.  Well, if he were being honest, a hot shower with Sam sounded better.  He eyed the telephone as he passed to the bathroom, but shook his head.  No, Sam would be at the club right now.  _And_ , he’d been gone less than a day, for christ’s sake.  The shower creaked when he turned on the tap, but the water was hot and the towels were clean.  He inched into the stall and let his shoulders slump when the steamy water beat down on his back at last.  

 

Once he’d run out all the hot water and dried, Gabriel flopped onto the bed and eyed the phone again.  _Ah, fuck it,_ he thought.  He dialed up the operator, gave her the number for Sam, and waited while it rang.  He _knew_ Sam wouldn’t be there to answer, he _knew_ that he’d only get the answering machine, but his stomach fell anyway when his lover’s rough, recorded voice said, “It’s Sam.  Leave a message.”

 

“Hey sugar,” Gabriel said softly into the receiver. “I know you’re workin’.  I bet you’re knockin’ their socks off; you always do.  Anyway, I just wanted to tell you I made it to Dallas for work and—“ He paused, throat sticking for a moment.  “And, that I miss you, Sam.  I—  I’ll see you in a few days.”

 

He let the receiver crash back into the cradle, feeling his face burn.  He was a paid government assassin, goddamn it.  He’d taken out leaders and degenerates the world over with only a blink, but he couldn’t manage to make a fucking phone call without getting the jitters?  Gabriel wiped a hand down his face and set an alarm on the bedside clock before burrowing underneath the covers and burying his face in the pillow.  God, what had he gotten himself into?

 


	4. Rules of Engagement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel's hunting wabbits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All righty, pretties. This is where the violence comes in. For serious, blood everywhere, character injury, the works. Also, I'm feeling insecure and this chapter has absolutely no dialogue, so you've gotta sit through my attempt at storytelling here. It's bunk. I'm sorry. Good luck.

Gabriel crouched on the black tar roof of the Union Depot and lined up the sights on the Garand.  A couple hundred meters away, his target was meandering between box cars, critically eyeing the building fronts on the other side of the Depot.  At least five other men were following.  From what he could tell, the man the mark was talking to was just a nervous-looking salesman, no doubt extolling the virtues of the property and how it would benefit his... _organization_.  The four other men followed the target loosely.  He recognized the behavior of well-trained, experienced thugs, and he also knew a weakness.  He smiled to himself and slid the Garand’s clip home with a quiet _snick_.  

 

Thugs never looked up.

 

He fit the butt of the gun tight against his shoulder and balanced the barrel on the lip of the ledge, spreading out on the hot tar and evening his breath.  He followed the mark slowly through the scope, waiting until they came a little closer before he took a shot.  The group stopped, walked inside a building and stayed for a while.  Gabriel didn’t let himself worry, just relaxed and waited.  There was no way that they knew anything was wrong, Gabriel had made sure of that.  This wasn't his first rodeo and he'd taken all the usual precautions.  A few minutes passed, and the group reemerged.  Gabriel paused in bringing the scope back to his eye.  He frowned.  The thug had looked up.  The first man out the door was a tall, thin creature with a long, harsh face.  And he’d looked up, surveying the buildings around.  Gabriel felt a splinter of unease dig its way into his head, but he brought the Garand back up and took aim at the mark.  

 

He counted to himself:

 

_One._

 

_Two._

 

_Three._

 

 _Four_ breaths in and out.  He watched.  The mark lit a cigar and smiled at the salesman.  Gabriel felt his heartbeat against the tar. 

 

_One._

 

_Two._

 

_Three._

 

 

_Four._

 

 

The target held out his hand to the salesman.  

 

_Five._

 

 

 

_Six._

 

 

 

 

 _Click_. 

 

Gabriel squeezed the trigger and the Garand bucked against his shoulder.  He couldn’t hear it, but he could imagine the sickening crack as he watched the slug splinter the mark’s skull and bounce around in his brains.  The asphalt was stained and splattered red as the body slumped and fell.  The thugs were scattering, one trying to stave off the bleeding from his boss’ head, the others ducking and looking around for the shooter.  Gabriel pulled the gun back, a satisfied look sliding over his face, and pushed out a sigh.  There.  Job well done, and plenty of time to—

 

His thoughts were lost as a piece of the concrete lip shattered just to his left.  Gabriel looked around wildly. 

 

What the _fuck?_

 

Long, Tall, and Creepy was looking straight at him and squeezing off another shot.  The concrete directly in front of him exploded.  Gabriel scrambled back, covering his face.  When the dust cleared, he threw the Garand back into the bag and crawled.   _Stay low, stay out of the line of fire_.  He reached the door. Then, he sprang to his feet and sprinted through access door.  He pulled his pistol from the holster on his shoulder, slamming the magazine home and cocking it back.  His boots thudded heavily down the steps, and his bag flailed wildly against his back, but his grip on the gun never wavered.  He checked the corner at the bottom of the step quickly and sped across the lot to where he’d stashed the car.  Three shots rang out behind him, the bullets whizzing by and embedding themselves in the cheap wood of the building on his right.  

 

Gabriel pushed his legs faster, not daring to look back.  Rule No. 1 of Engagement: Don’t engage if you can escape.  Right now, escape was imminent.  Charlene was tucked away behind the building fronts just a few hundred feet away.  They hadn’t seen his face, he didn’t think, and he could make it.  He heard the sounds of their feet in pursuit and the angry echo of their voices, then three more scattered shots.  

 

 _Fuck_.

 

The assassin nearly stumbled to the ground as two of the shots ripped through him.  Pain exploded high in his left arm and in his side.  He gasped, unable to scream for lack of breath, but managed to keep his feet moving.  He dropped low.  Ran one direction, then another, trying desperately to make sure he didn’t take another hit.  He assessed the damage with a small, detached part of his brain.  These he could fix, provided nothing important had been hit, but another would definitely put him down.  

 

Rule No. 2 of Engagement: If you’re injured, retaliate. 

 

Finally, Charlene was in sight.  He threw open the door, tossed the rucksack in the backseat, and fired her up.  Gabriel grimaced and rolled down the driver’s side window.  The thugs were just behind him, trying to shoot out the rear window.  Bullets pinged and whizzed away.  Thank fuck for bulletproof glass.  He threw the car into reverse and shot off, accelerating backward to forty-five miles per hour.  He mercilessly drove the car over one poor bastard that didn’t get out of the way in time-- Scored a hit on one of the other henchmen as he shot out the window.  Charlene’s tires shredded the thug’s skin underneath, the bastard he’d shot went down with a scream, and he peeled out of the lot away to freedom.  

 

But the last look he got of the henchmen was Long, Tall, and Creepy shooting for his tires with a nasty smile on his face.   

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

He knew he couldn’t go back to the hotel, so Gabriel pushed the Corvette as fast as he dared through the Dallas traffic and into the countryside.  He drove, drove for what felt like _hours—_ and in all honesty, it probably _was_ hours—until he was fairly certain that he was far and away from the thugs he’d left behind.  The blood oozing from his side had soaked through his two shirts and the leg of his pants.  It was beginning to pool and stick to the creamy leather of the seat and the road was starting to weave in front of him.  He looked out into the desert landscape for something, anything to hide him while he stopped and put himself back together.  

 

A little further and ahead on the horizon was a self-service gas station, lights dark and windows boarded.  The day was just ending, sun bloody and low in the sky, and if there wasn’t anyone there now, there wouldn’t be later.  He eased the car into the drive and pulled around to the back of the building.  Seeing nothing and no one, he killed her engine and stumbled out to the trunk of the car.  A quick pop, and he managed to lift the floorboard up with his good hand.  Just underneath was what he was searching for: first aid kit.  God bless Baldur and his over-prepared ass.  He bolted up the car and staggered to the back door.  

 

Locked.

 

But, it was glass.  He could break it.  Gabriel fished a decent-sized rock out of the sand and chucked it into the shiny surface.  He winced and groaned as the motion jostled his body, but at least he could unlock the door now.  He shoved his hand right through the broken glass and registered stripes of fire as it cut into his knuckles and the top of his hand.  Damn, the blood loss was getting to him.  But, the lock turned easy and the door swung open.  

 

 _This isn’t good_ , he thought as he reeled into the empty station.  His dimmed sensation, blurred vision, and racing heart all pointed to shock setting in; he had to stop the bleeding.  Blood dripped with a steady _trip trip trip_ across the floor.  He threw the first aid kit onto the counter and scrambled to get out of his sticky clothes, tearing through the buttons of his overshirt and peeling off his soaked undershirt.  He tossed his shoulder holster and the bloody garments onto the floor, and inspected the wounds.  One bullet had gone through his arm, passing in and out of his bicep, and the other had ripped below his ribs, only just under the surface.  The caliber was small, and the exit wound on his arm wasn’t nearly as big as it could have been.  The skin of his side was split about an inch deep and gaping, but it was still only a surface wound.  Gabriel sighed with relief at that as blood trickled slowly down his side and under the waistband of his black pants.  Had the bullet been lodged, he wouldn’t have been able to get it out himself; the angle was all wrong.  He couldn’t stitch it all, but he could do some, and he fumbled for a needle and antiseptic. A quick wash of iodine and Gabriel was seeing stars, panting and weaving. He opened the needle packet.   It was prethreaded, curved and wicked, and it stole his breath as it wove his flesh back together.  The stitches were sloppy, his fingers bloody, but at last a harsh herringbone pattern stuck out on his reddened skin.  He reached for another needle, eyes watering and breath choking.

 

Then, in a haze, he remembered Self-Repair Rule 11: _Don’t_ suture gunshot wounds.  _Irrigate and wrap, clean, wrap, inherently dirty._ Disjointed thoughts and snippets of training imprinted the message in his brain.  Gritting his teeth and popping the top on a small bottle of iodine, he rinsed down each wound and groaned.  The bottle slipped from his slack fingers and fell to the floor as Gabriel doubled over, panting.  Cursing, and bracing himself with an elbow on the counter, he looked at each wound and wiped away any gunpowder left.  Then, with shaking hands, he fumbled to open sanitized pads, wrapping them tight with a heavy roll of gauze around his stomach.  He wrapped his arm, then his hand, until all of the bleeding was staunched and he could breathe again.  

 

Gabriel sank to the floor, panting.  He felt exhausted, dizzy, but at least it was done.  He retrieved his shirts from the floor and slipped them back on, shivering at the clammy touch of cold blood.  Grabbing his holster and the remaining first aid supplies, he staggered back out the door and to the car.  _Home, he had to get home_.  Get back to Sam.  

 

Distantly, he wondered when _Sam_ had become home…

 


	5. Bloody Unveiling

It was amazing, a superhuman feat nearly, that Gabriel made it back to Chicago without crashing his car, and on some level he acknowledged his sheer stupidity. The next nearest Agency headquarters was in California and he didn’t--couldn't--stop to call for a safehouse location.  What if they were following?  Just behind?  The Corvette wasn't exactly the hardest thing to track.  But even the transmitter in his Agency-issued shoe would have called help to his location had he thought to activate it. Instead, he’d driven eleven straight, delirious hours back to Chicago, back to the safest place he could think of, and thrown out any notions to call for help until he was in a secure location.

 

It was late the next day when he managed to park a few streets from Sam’s house. Even in his incoherent state, he knew on some level that—if he’d been made—Cohen’s men couldn’t find the car, couldn’t find him. Couldn’t find Sam. So he put on his coat to hide the blood, left the car filed away anonymously in an empty lot, and staggered up to Sam’s front door.

 

He knocked.

 

A pause.

 

The chain rattled and the door swung inward…and there he was.

 

“Hey sugar,” Gabriel said with a bloody grin. He fell, adrenaline deserting him, exhaustion crumpling his knees and collapsing him to the hard wood of the porch. He reached to touch—just brush—Sam’s leg to make sure he was real.

 

“Gabriel! Oh my god!” he heard Sam exclaim.

 

The assassin slumped forward and held tight to Sam’s leg. God, he was real. Thank fuck.

 

“Sam,” he said as he looked up, voice breaking and lips cracking when he smiled, “it’s ok.”

 

“Jesus Christ, Gabriel, I’m calling 911!” Sam said frantically. He crouched and dragged Gabriel back to his feet. “C’mon, get inside, I’ll—”

 

“No, no,” he said insistently, drunkenly pawing at Sam’s face with bloody fingers. When he at last was able to grab Sam’s chin and force him to look down, he said laboriously, “Need to…call Morningstar. They’ll take care of this. Tell ‘em…car’s a few streets…few streets down, job’s finished.”

 

Sam’s green-hazel eyes roved over him, panic just behind them. “Gabe, I—”

 

Gabriel pressed a soft kiss to Sam’s cheek, letting the taller man hold him tight despite the pain that spiked through him. “Just lemme make a call, sugar.”

 

Sam’s shoulders slumped, but he relented and led Gabriel back inside the house, settling him gently on the couch and bringing the phone as close as it would come. Gabriel clumsily dialed a number he knew as well as breathing, and waited.

 

“Are you secure?” was the first thing a croaking, distorted voice said in his ear.

 

“Yes,” he managed.

 

“Report,” it prompted.

 

“Job complete, damaged sustained. Request medical assistance at 7521 South Wabash. Transportation ready for pickup and repair at 76th and Calumet, weapons inside.”

 

“Noted,” the voice said. Then the line disconnected and the only sound left in the house was Gabriel’s labored breathing.

 

“Sam—” he started.

 

“Gabe, I want to know what the hell is going on.”

 

Gabriel winced at the low, frantic tone of Sam’s voice. He should have known that this is what would’ve happened, that this couldn’t be home. Should’ve known not to come here—

 

Sam strode forward and knelt gently between Gabriel’s knees, eyes stricken and posture apologetic. “No, no, no, don’t say that.”

 

Oh, he’d said that out loud?

 

“Gabriel, I don’t know what’s going on. You’re here, you look like death, and you’ve just called an investment organization instead of the police,” Sam said, voice softer, fingers threading through the assassin’s hair. “I just…Gabe, if you die on me, I swear to God, I’ll never forgive you.”

 

Gabriel chuckled lightly, then groaned. “Shit, sugar. If I was gonna die, I’d have keeled over a hundred miles ago.”

 

Sam’s eyes widened. “You drove…all the way from Dallas? Just to get here? Gabe, why didn’t you stop? Why didn’t you go to a hospital, for god’s sake?”

 

Gabriel smile was a little bitter, a little brittle. “I’m sorry, Sam,” he whispered. “I wasn’t thinkin’. I just… I just wanted to be home.”

 

Sam bit his lip and Gabriel could see tears welling up in his eyes. “Hey, hey now sweetheart, it’s ok,” he murmured, raising a hand slowly and stroking Sam’s hair.

 

Sam surged forward, crushing Gabriel to him, burying his face in his shoulder. The shorter man bit his lip so as not to scream, and held Sam gently. “You’re taking all this pretty well,” he managed.

 

Abruptly, Sam pulled away.

 

“What?” Gabriel asked uneasily, resting his bandaged hand on Sam’s.

 

“You smell like blood,” he said. Then, before he could object, Sam was tearing his jacket open. He groaned loudly when the singer’s large hands brushed the stitches in his side, and he twitched. He could see Sam’s jaw was working, but his mouth wasn’t forming any words. Gabriel peeked and noticed that the bandage and the gauze were soaked totally through.

 

“Sorry about your couch,” he murmured, head lolling. Blood was seeping through the sleeve and the back of his jacket into the soft brown fabric of the sofa. Sam choked, hands shaking.

 

“What—Gabe, what do I do? Gabe, you’re bleeding everywhere, what do I—what do I do?” Sam was babbling, shaking his head, eyes locked on the widening patch of blood on Gabriel’s side.

 

The assassin steeled himself and sat forward, placing a firm hand on the singer’s shoulder. “Sam, sweetheart, calm down.” Sam looked wildly at him.  “Help me out of this.”

 

Sam sat frozen for a moment, then snapped into action. Gently, he slid the ruined jacket from Gabriel’s shoulders and gasped when he finally saw the wound on his left arm.

 

“Go…go get hot water, soap, and a…couple towels,” said Gabriel, gently pushing Sam in the direction of the bathroom before he sank back into the couch. When he could breathe evenly again, he started unwrapping the gauze from his side. Sam scrambled back into the living room as he dropped the soaked wrapping onto the floor and held the bandage to his side. Sam’s eyes widened and he sank to his knees. Gabriel peeked under the bandage and let out a pained sigh. The wound had broken open, stitches torn; shit, it didn’t look good.

 

“Sam, Sam look at me,” he murmured. The singer’s eyes were fixed on the blood, but at his soft command, he tore them away. “Sweetheart, I’m going to take the bandage off. There’s gonna be a lot of blood, ok?” He hissed and shifted. “Don’t—don’t freak out. Just wet that towel and hold it here,” he said.

 

Sam let out a breath and shuddered. “Ok,” he said, voice tight.

 

“Ok,” echoed Gabriel. Then, he peeled back the bandage.

 

The wound didn’t look good, but at least it hadn’t started looking worse. The skin surrounding was red and torn, but not streaking with infection. Sam soaped and wet the towel, twisting the water back into the bowl, pressing the white cloth gently to Gabriel’s side. The assassin gently worked the cloth over the wound, wiping away crusted blood and bandage residue. After a few washes, finally the wound was cleansed and weeping clean blood. He squeezed Sam’s hand and held it down.

 

“Just…just stay like that, sweetheart,” he said, gritting his teeth. “It needs to stop bleeding.”

 

He nodded reassuringly at Sam, then closed his eyes. Just a little while longer…

 

“I’ll tell you everything, Sam,” he breathed. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel Sam’s head jerk up. “Just a little while longer…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

They stayed like that for nearly half an hour. Sam’s face had steeled and focused once his initial panic passed.  He followed Gabriel’s directions with a determined shine in his eye. Gabriel held one towel to his side while Sam cleaned the bullet hole on his arm and wrapped another towel firmly around it. Finally, there was a knock on the door, and Sam rose to answer it.

 

“No,” Gabriel said firmly, taking hold of Sam’s arm before he could move away.

 

Sam’s face darkened with anger. “What do you mean, ‘no’? That might be the help you called for,” he said.

 

Gabriel shook his head and tried to rise from the couch. “Don’t—don’t answer it. Stay in here,” he ground out, swaying unsteadily on his feet. He reached for his gun.

 

“Shit.”

 

His gun was still in the car. His pistol. He hadn’t put his holster back on—hadn’t been able to move his left arm—now he didn’t have a gun at all, and there was someone knocking insistently at the door. He glanced at Sam--

 

The door splintered.

 

Two men in suits barged through the wrecked door, guns drawn. Sam made to launch himself forward before Gabriel could stop him, but the singer halted when the taller of the intruders cocked his revolver. Gabriel staggered forth, placing himself between Sam and the suited men.

 

“He’s with me,” said Gabriel.

 

The shorter of the men narrowed his eyes. “Identify,” he demanded.

 

The assassin rolled his eyes with what little energy he had left. “Loki,” Gabriel murmured, “Reaper Division, 65807-0502. Identify.”

 

The taller of the pair smirked. “Azrael,” he said with a proud tilt of his head, “Reaper Division, 65806-0431.”

 

The second, bearded man said, “Asclepius, Medical Staff, 54831-9181,” then glanced warily at Sam. Gabriel could feel the singer shift under the sudden attention and repeated, “He’s with me.”

 

Azrael and Asclepius exchanged glances, but holstered their weapons. Gabriel relaxed and Azrael stepped forward, enveloping him in a gentle hug.

 

“You look like shit, little brother,” he murmured, clasping Gabriel’s forearms tight.

 

“Stuff it, Luci,” he retorted, offering his brother a pained smile and chanced a glance at Sam. His lover was standing stock still, eyes darting between the three men in front of him. Gabriel reached back to close the distance between them, taking a few of Sam’s fingers in his bloodied hand in a reassuring gesture. Sam looked at him directly then, as if he was surprised Gabriel was actually real, but he tightened his grip and pursed his lips.

 

“You required medical assistance?” Asclepius asked as he shifted uncomfortably and eyed the two critically.

 

Gabriel felt his knees wobble, but he stood solid as he could in front of Sam. Though his brother Lucifer was technically an Agent, he didn’t put it past the man to gag and tie the singer up just for the fun of it. Asclepius, he’d never met—the Agency was worldwide, after all—but his demeanor didn’t do anything to put him at ease.

 

“In a minute,” he said firmly, still holding gently to Sam’s fingers. “What’s the word?”

 

Lucifer shot Sam a skeptical look but reluctantly offered his information at Gabriel’s insistence. “Nothing yet. Target elimination confirmed, no word on whether you were identified.”

 

Gabriel could see worry and a little fear sneaking its way across Sam’s face from the corner of his eye but he couldn’t focus on it. His head was spinning, the world panning back and forth beneath him. Then, he sighed deeply, dropping Sam’s fingers to hold his side with both hands. Faintly, he realized he could feel the blood squelching through the towel he’d been holding in place.

 

Oh.

 

Oh shit.

 

“I think I’ll take that help now,” he mumbled. He lifted a foot to take a step back toward the couch and felt his knees crumpled underneath him. Exhaustion sat heavy on his shoulders, and even though the floor met cruelly with his knees and everything hurt, he couldn’t focus on any of it. The world was going fuzzy and black. He registered Sam dropping and his face being cradled by large hands. He tried to smile at Sam, tell him that everything would be ok, but he couldn’t work his mouth, couldn’t see.

 

Everything was…

 

Dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, that chapter was a little long. I couldn't bring myself to cut it down or chop it up. If you see any inconsistencies or anything sketchy, please let me know!


	6. Director's Input

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here, have a bonus chapter for this sham of a holiday. :D Short and nothing too exciting going on, but expect a regular update on Monday where we start getting into some good stuff.

_Who the hell has the spotlight?_

 

Gabriel’s brain felt like it was marinating in tar and the light was absolutely blinding. He blinked once. Twice. Then, he realized it wasn’t a spotlight. It was only the bright, bright lights of the Agency’s infirmary. He looked around the room, but no one was there. There was, however, an observation camera sitting in the corner of the room.

 

He sat up, groaning. Jesus, everything still hurt, but less so than it had before. Fresh black stitches stood out on his bicep and his side, fresh bandages wrapped his hand. Whether Ascelpius or the Agency doctors on site had patched him up, he didn’t know. He only dearly, sincerely hoped that someone had had enough sense to keep Sam away while they did. Seeing as how the man hadn’t followed him into the infirmary, maybe someone had. Slowly, he slid the IV out of his arm and tossed it away with a gasp. Monitoring pads peppered his chest and stomach, and he peeled those off with a frustrated sigh. Goddamn it, if Lucifer had pulled something on Sam, he was going to kill him.  He didn't trust his brother as far as he could throw him, at least not where delicacy was concerned.  They'd been through too much shit for Agent Azrael to give a damn.

 

When he was free, he ripped the sheet from the bed and wrapped it around his naked shoulders. His pants were missing, he found, so he padded barefoot across the cold tile out into the hallway.  At first, he didn’t see anyone, then he heard the click of heels coming down the hallway toward him. Groggily, he turned and saw a familiar, if unexpected, face: Naomi, the Agency Director of Morningstar.

 

“Oh, shit,” he muttered to himself. He pulled the sheet tighter around himself and squared his shoulders.

 

Naomi grimaced and looked him over uneasily. “What are you doing up, Loki? You should still be asleep.”

 

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “What are you doing down here?” he shot back. “Come down from the tower to mingle?”

 

“I’ve come to tie up a loose end,” she said with a sigh. “You were identified.”

 

He winced. Christ, the woman always cut right to the chase. That’s why she was head of this godforsaken organization after they’d ousted the last Metatron: No bullshit, no nonsense. Surprising though, to everyone, that she’d kept her old alias instead of taking up the mantle of the Scribe. Gabriel wasn’t entirely sure what her endgame was, but he did respect her ability to run the damn thing. Must be like herding cats. Cats with guns.

 

“What have you heard?” he murmured.

 

Naomi’s lips tightened unhappily, but she offered him a reluctant answer. “You’ve been out three days. Since you returned, we’ve received word that some of Cohen’s men are mobilizing. Heard talk of men matching your description and Sam’s from the Network, but nothing has been solidified yet. You may have taken out one of his higher ups, but that apparently hasn’t slowed Cohen’s progress at all.”

 

“Any chance of cutting the head off this beast?” Gabriel asked, rolling his shoulder.

 

Naomi shook her head. “We can’t touch him,” she said. “Not yet, anyway. He’s becoming quite a public figure since his release from prison and the state has a close eye on him. We can’t take him out until we can do it discreetly.”

 

Gabriel sighed. “All right, I’m goin’ home.”

 

He made to turn, but was stopped by a firm grip on his good arm. “Loki,” the Director intoned seriously, “what are you going to do about Sam Winchester?”

 

The assassin’s eyes hardened. It was never good news when the Agency had a full name.  It made his stomach clench.  The only people the Agency kept names for were targets and hearing Sam's name in her mouth had an ominous ring to it. “I’m going to tell him the truth,” he replied.

 

Naomi held his arm for a moment longer, then released him with a shake of her head. “Don’t be too long about it,” she said. “Protect him and finish the job, then cut him loose. You know how frantic civilians can get.”

 

“Can’t expect any help on this, can I?” he asked with a sneer.

 

Naomi frowned. “This is your mistake, Loki. You should have requested assistance, and you shouldn’t have involved a civilian. Take what you need to the Field House and keep Sam Winchester under watch.”

 

Gabriel snorted. There was no sense of brotherhood with this bunch. It wouldn’t matter if he’d saved the whole damn Agency; they were strictly a you-break-it-you-buy-it kind of organization.  Sometimes, he really missed the old days...

 

He rolled his eyes, wandering down the hallway in search of pants as Naomi clicked away. As funny as it was to think about, Gabriel had no doubt in his mind that showing up naked on Sam’s porch would not win him any points after the stunt he just pulled.

 

Shit, this was gonna be a long day…


	7. The Reveal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just like that...
> 
> This is where we start getting into some feeeeels. From here on out, it's gonna get kind of rough. So strap in. Comments are super appreciated!!

Gabriel parked a nondescript car on the street and trudged to the familiar stoop, an ever-growing feeling of dread pooling in his gut. He hesitated in front of Sam’s recently repaired door and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. Despite the cool weather, it felt like someone had lit a fire under his ass. The fresh, tailored suit and expensive shoes did nothing for his confidence as it might have in the past. All of the cocky assurance that usually sat so well on his face had deserted him.  Instead, he felt an empty sense of foreboding twisting in his gut.  Well, nothing to be done about it. He tentatively raised a hand, knocked, and waited.

 

Nothing. He knocked again, this time a little louder. Then, quite abruptly, the door yanked open. However, who answered was _not_ who he expected to see. Dean Winchester’s green eyes flashed wide for a split second, then Gabriel was sent staggering back as the man’s fist connected with his jaw.

 

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?” Gabriel spat, rubbing his face and ducking under another wide swing.

 

“I could ask _you_ the same damn question,” Dean snarled, throwing a wild haymaker. “How _dare_ you come back here after what you’ve done? Do you have any idea what a _state he’s in_?”

 

“Look, I—fuck,” Gabriel said, ducking again and pivoting around Sam's furious brother, “I just want to see Sam!”

 

“Like HELL you’re going to see my brother! He’s been worried _sick_ , thought you were _dead_ , wandering around like some kind of goddamn _zombie_ ,” Dean raged, frustration growing when Gabriel ducked around each of the punches punctuating his sentences.

 

“De—Dean! Come on, you bastard!” Finally, Gabriel’d had enough. Dean threw one last vicious uppercut that caught Gabriel low and to the side when the assassin took firm hold of his elbow and shoved him roughly against the wall of the house.  “I just want to see Sam. I want to explain,” Gabriel stressed.

 

Dean’s mouth curled with contempt, but he was spared an answer when Gabriel was knocked away from him by a pair of powerful hands. He felt his stitches pull and he winced as he stumbled, then he actually groaned in pain when those large hands pinned him viciously to the house in turn. Gabriel opened his mouth, but immediately shut it, accusations dying on his tongue.

 

Sam was _furious_. His green-hazel eyes were blazing and his lips were pulled back ferociously over his teeth as he held the assassin tight to the wall.

 

“Sam—” Gabriel started.

 

“Don’t you _ever_ touch my brother again,” Sam growled, tightened his hands around the lapels of Gabriel’s suit jacket.

 

“Sam,” Dean said in a low voice, looking slightly to his left. An old woman across the street had shuffled out onto her porch and was staring. The singer snarled under his breath, then hauled Gabriel inside the house. He stumbled into the kitchen and Sam followed close behind, putting a firm hand on his shoulder to steer him into the living room. Dean slammed the door. Sam very nearly tossed Gabriel into the open space. The assassin straightened his jacket and adjusted his holster as the brothers squared up in front of him.

 

“Spill it,” Dean said, crossing his arms in front of himself.

 

Gabriel looked back and forth between the brothers. “You’re joking, right?” The pair frowned at each other. “You want me to just ‘spill’ one of the biggest secrets the world has ever _not_ known?”

 

Gabriel couldn’t help the slightly panicked laugh that bubbled out his mouth. He could see the lines in Dean’s face harden, but Sam looked at least a little abashed at the demand even though his resolve didn't waver.

 

“ _Yes_ ,” Sam ground out. “You show up _bleeding_ , practically dead, disappear for _days_ after some strange men break down my door and threaten me and my family, and now you just show up as if nothing’s happened. So, talk.”

 

“Just get on with it,” Dean prompted, shifting in front of his brother slightly.

 

Gabriel ignored him and turned his eyes to Sam. When he was met with a stony face, Gabriel let his shoulders slump with a sigh. “Fine.” The singer’s jaw was set and his eyes were flinty. Jesus. Better just rip the damn Band-aid. “Reaper,” he said with a flourish of his arms and a bow, “at your service.”

 

He very nearly could have laughed at the looks on their faces if he wasn’t feeling such a sharp sting of hurt. Sam’s lips parted slowly and his brow tightened as he tried to make heads or tails of that. “What does that mean, exactly?” he asked in a low voice.

 

Gabriel smiled bitterly. “Probably not what you think, sugar. Government-paid assassin. I get a letter, a telegram with the information I need, then I get the job done.”

 

“Your job is to _kill_ people?” The look on Sam’s face as he spat the accusation cut Gabriel to his core. He realized this must be why the Agency always said not to get involved out of house. No civilian would condone such a thing. Least of all sweet, smiling Sam.  It had always been in the back of his mind, but the reality of it was something else entirely.  The sharp sting of guilt tasted sour in Gabriel's mouth.

 

“Guilty,” Gabriel replied with a grim smile. “Just killin’ the people who deserve it.”  Sam's face darkened. Gabriel felt dirty, _wrong_ , for only the second time in his career, and he hid the feeling behind a thin veneer of overconfidence. No sense in giving Sam more ammunition to tear him down. Already, he could feel his foundations cracking under the onslaught of Sam’s hurt.

 

“Just like that?” Dean chimed in, raising his eyebrows and waving a hand.

 

Despite his resolve, Gabriel couldn’t make his eyes meet Sam’s. The singer looked faintly sick, disgusted. He couldn’t bring himself to lie. He wanted to tell Sam that it was hard, that killing those people didn’t give him some small amount of satisfaction. But, he couldn’t. So, with a nonchalant gesture and a nauseous smile, he said, “Just like that.”

 

Sam very nearly choked and tore his gaze away from Gabriel, focusing on nothing out the window on the other side of the room and folding his arms across himself. The assassin could feel his heart breaking as he looked at those sad eyes. Sam looked so vulnerable, so goddamn _hurt_. His fingers itched to take Sam’s hands and apologize over and over.

 

“So--hah, you mind tellin’ me why I shouldn’t beat you into the goddamn ground right now?” Dean menaced.

 

Gabriel’s gaze flicked to Dean, then back to Sam.  Were he a more insensitive bastard, he would've laughed at Dean's threats.

 

“I don’t have a good reason,” he admitted, more to the singer than his brother. “By all rights, maybe you should hand my ass to me on a platter.” Sam glanced at him at that. “I brought danger to your brother, got shot all to shit and came crawlin' to his door instead of following the rules. I was made, and we’ve heard chatter than they know about Sam.”

 

Sam grimaced and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

 

“I never, ever, intended for this to happen.” At last, Sam looked at him and held his gaze. “And I don’t know what’s going to happen now.”

 

“So, some bastards will be coming after my brother, is that what you’re saying?” Dean asked incredulously. He seemed too shell-shocked make good on his threat, and Gabriel took the opportunity to take a tentative step toward Sam.

 

“Possibly,” he admitted. Sam scoffed and stepped back, keeping the distance between them.

 

“But I can protect you,” Gabriel said softly, extending his hand toward Sam unconsciously. “I’m part of a worldwide organization just called the Agency. There’s a branch in every country, sometimes two or three if it’s big enough, and ours is called Morningstar. We have multi-level organization and dispersement, medics, tech developers, weapons designers, and Reapers. Like me.” Sam and Dean looked at him incredulously. “So, when I say I can keep you safe, you’d best believe that there’s no one better to have on your side. I have _arsenals_ at my disposal, enough for the holy host, and orders from the Director to _protect_ you. I don’t kill innocent civilians, Sam.”

 

Sam seemed to stand on the edge, wavering between resentment and some sort of amazement. “How do I know I can trust you?” he asked softly.

 

“You can’t,” Gabriel said with a helpless shrug, even though he wanted to reassure the man and tell him whatever he wanted to hear. Instead, he squared his shoulders and said, “But, I don’t miss."

 

Dean scoffed, and Gabriel quelled him with a hard stare.  Sam worked his bottom lip between his teeth before Gabriel turned back to him and took a firm step forward.  At Sam's sharp intake of breath, he said,

 

"Trust my aim.”


	8. Safe House Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Early update! It's finals week sooooo
> 
> Angst ahoy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand we're grinding grinding grinding. I'm sorry, there's not going to be much action in this chapter. I'm not real proud of it, but you know
> 
> Comments always appreciated. Again, self-edited so mistakes are my bad

Sam swallowed hard. “So what should we do?”

 

Gabriel glanced back at him. “We need to go someplace safe. There’s an Agency house I want you to go to.”

 

Sam glanced at Dean. “Now? What about Dean?” he asked.

 

Gabriel shrugged. “Dean isn’t associated with me. I haven’t been seen around his residence or know him in any real capacity. There wasn’t any talk of him reported. Any crook with a brain will know he won’t have the info they want. You will.”

 

Sam pursed his lips unhappily but nodded in return.

 

“Pack up and I’ll be back to get you. Send Dean home and I’ll send someone to keep an eye on him,” Gabriel said.

 

“Where are you going?” Dean asked.

 

Gabriel let a feral smile steal across his face as Dean and Sam exchanged slightly alarmed looks. “Need to get a few supplies.”

 

 

  
Gabriel sped back to Morningstar and found Kali as fast as he could, sneaking into the garage and nearly sprinting to the mech floor. The engineer was testing a new long-range detonator, the techs told him. Follow the explosions. Another level down, and he could feel the reinforced walls shaking. Kali sat in an observation deck, remote in hand and a pleased smile on her face as she surveyed the wreckage of a car. When she spied his reflection in the mirror, she turned, saying with a smile, “You managed to bring all my guns back this time. I’m not sure to what deity I should be praying, but it’s a goddamn miracle.”

 

She slid the heavy, noise-cancelling ear muffs from her head and, at the look on his face, let her smile slide away, too. “What’s happened?”

 

“I need some protection,” he said grimly, “and guns. Lots of guns.”

 

Kali nodded decisively and led him back upstairs. Gabriel couldn’t bring himself to talk about his failure, and she didn’t ask.  She only deposited him at the door and, with a tender touch to his cheek, pressed the detonator into his hand.

 

“Receivers are on the rack, compatible with any explosive, any device. One touch,” she murmured. “I know how you love a bang.”

 

Then, she left. He sighed deeply, wishing he could wipe away the fear lurking in her eyes. She was an old friend, and she didn’t deserve the worry this job came with. He sagged slightly and pushed open the door to the armory. More guilt wasn’t what he needed, but it was what he always seemed to get. He flipped on the lights and leaned back against the door for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Where to start? Despite all of his experience, all his years under Morningstar, he’d never actually _protected_ someone from harm. Not with them, anyway.

 

He grabbed two canvas bags and filled the first with every weapon he could fit, letting old training filter through the new and guide him. Where would they attack, where would they be? Inside the house or out in the street? He grabbed something for every scenario he could think of and stuffed it into the bag until it was almost too heavy to carry comfortably. Then, he filled the second bag with trip wire and rope, bulletproof vests, flashbang grenades, anything he could use. Necessity is the mother of invention and ghosts of the past were cooking up some nasty ideas. He lugged the bags down to the garage and, once all the supplies were loaded into the car, he drove a fast, winding path back to Sam’s.

 

 

 

 

Dean’s car was still there when he returned, and he found the brothers sitting in the kitchen, a cup of coffee still steaming in Sam’s hands and a bag laying on the table.  Their heads were bent together and Dean was muttering heatedly under his breath.

 

"Sam, you can't  _possibly_ be serious about this."

 

Sam shrugged his shoulders helplessly and said in a quiet voice, "Dean, I can't run from this.  Not this time.  These people will find me, Gabriel made that much clear."

 

Dean's eyes narrowed.  "You mean like you couldn't run from Stanford?  Or from that girl?"

 

Sam opened his mouth to reply, hurt coloring his features, then jumped when he caught sight of Gabriel stepping lightly into the room.  The assassin suppressed the urge to punch Dean in the face, and nearly winced at the distressed look that had settled onto Sam’s face. He cleared his throat and Sam stood.

 

“Are we ready?” Gabriel asked softy. When Sam nodded, he asked, “Does anyone else know Dean is here?”

 

The brothers shook their heads and the assassin smiled grimly. He led the pair out and, after a quick, quiet talk, Sam folded himself into Gabriel’s car, leaving Dean in the driveway.

 

“You take care of my brother, you bastard,” Dean muttered, giving Sam one last glance before fixing Gabriel with a venomous look.

 

Gabriel squared his shoulders. “I will.”

 

Dean eyed him thoughtfully, then shook his head and sank into his car. Gabriel started up the beige sedan and chanced a glance at Sam, but when he saw the look of consternation on the singer’s face, he focused on the road alone and eased into the street.

 

* * *

 

 

The drive to the safe house was short and tense, Sam avoiding any and all contact in the drive across town. But, Gabriel was relieved to see, a faint look of wonder crossed Sam’s face when they arrived. The Field House had been around since the 1930s, but the Agency had acquired it in the late 40s. Once upon a time, it had hosted the World Fair. Now, it sat behind a long, imposing black fence that spanned the peninsula in Lake Michigan, and it was something to behold. The white stones of the building nearly shone in the sunlight of midday, and the water of the lake sparkled off the bulletproof windows. Gabriel eased the car into a garage and fished the house keys out of his pocket, Sam following him inside with a look of surprise.

 

“What, did you think it’d be some sort of rundown shack?” Gabriel asked with a smirk.

 

“I mean,” Sam faltered, “considerin' the circumstances…”

 

Gabriel’s smile widened minutely and he dropped his bags onto the floor of the foyer. “Come on,” he said. “There’s rooms this way.” He led the singer down the hallway to the left and said, “Kitchen and amenities are fully stocked, everything you need should be around. There’s a library, entertainment room, the works. Pick whatever room you want.”

 

Sam didn’t reply and chose a door at the very end of the hallway, quite obviously as far from Gabriel as he thought he could manage. Gabriel sighed and left him to settle in, hefting his bags into the dining room. A long, cherrywood table stretched the span of it, and he dropped the bags gently onto the surface. From the hall closet, he pulled out a clean linen sheet and spread it over the table. He began laying out his guns in a neat order, setting boxes of ammunition by the barrels. All in all, fourteen guns lay upon the table, ranging from rifles to pistols to automatics. He methodically chambered rounds in each and inspected them, letting the monotony settle his thoughts.

 

As he was finishing the last two, Sam wandered into the room, hands stuffed defensively into his pockets again. The look on his face made Gabriel want to hold him close, whisper over and over that there was nothing to be afraid of. Instead, he let Sam stand as a skittish deer in the woods, leveled him with what he hoped was a calming smile and handed him an olive drab pistol, grip first.

 

“This is for you,” he murmured.

 

Sam took the gun, and Gabriel was sickly pleased to find that he was right: a 1911 fit well in Sam’s hands, much better than it ever would have fit in his.

 

“You ever use one of these before?”

 

Sam nodded. “A few times, out with my dad, in Texas.”

 

Gabriel approached him slowly. He stood just inches away, as close as he dared, and took the gun from the singer’s large hands. “Safety, magazine release,” he said quietly, pointing to a lever then a button on the face of the gun before handing it back. “I want you to hang on to this. Can you do that?”

 

Sam nodded again and cradled the gun in his hands as if it were a piece of glass. “You really weren’t lyin',” Sam breathed.

 

Gabriel frowned and cocked his head. “This,” he said, gesturing to the guns on the table, “is what convinced you?”

 

Sam nodded faintly.

 

“Not the blood or the car or the house? The guns.”

 

“It—” Sam faltered. “I thought that maybe, you know, it was a hoax. But you really, really are a spy. These are real…”

 

“Not a spy,” Gabriel reminded him with a sad smile. “I’m sorry, Sam,” he said softly. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I just—” He paused and ran a hand over his eyes. Sam was stony when he peeked, but he strove on. “I just wanted this to last.”

 

Surprise skittered across the singer’s face, and Gabriel’s heart ached.

 

“I don’t know what you thought this was,” he continued, placing a tentative hand on the man’s forearm. “Us. But god, Sam, I—I don’t think I was ever happier than when I was with you. I didn’t miss this, didn’t want it. I just—wanted the quiet, apple pie life.”

 

“But you still took the job,” Sam said in a subdued voice. “And now… Now we’re here.”

 

Gabriel wanted to stop him as the taller man pulled out of his grip and silently left the room. He wanted to scream and promise anything Sam wanted but, instead…he let him go. There were no words he could offer to erase the disappointment on Sam’s face, no touch or smile to soothe the sting of betrayal. Gabriel slumped into one of the dining chairs and cradled his face in his hands.

 

_Jesus, what had he done?_

 

 

 

Later, after he had stashed the some of the guns around the house and a bulletproof vest in Sam’s room, Gabriel slung the second bag over his shoulder and roamed the grounds, setting traps and hiding a few more guns in the boathouse just off the way. It wasn’t likely that a bunch of thugs would have more foresight beyond barging through the front gate, but setting rounds of amnesia darts around the perimeter eased his mind some. Then, he wired explosives to the gate with practiced hands, pocketing the detonator Kali had given him. It was almost dark, and by all reasoning he should stop and go back inside, but he found he wasn’t ready to face Sam just yet.

 

He just…needed something to do with his hands.

 

He set trap after trap around the house and, when his fingers ached in the chill of the evening, he hid supplies in the boathouse.  Then, his bag was empty and he was out of excuses. When he finally crept back inside, he heard Sam from the kitchen, talking in a low, heated voice to Dean over the phone. After a moment or two of unsuccessful eavesdropping, he snuck down the hall and shut the door to his bedroom softly, tossing his pistol onto the bed. Gently, he eased down into the overstuffed armchair in the corner and sighed in relief.

 

It was going to be a long night, and some rest before he started his watch would do him good. The first night in hiding was always the longest, and this one promised to be as long as his first stake-out, with Lucifer in Nevada. It was one of his first missions after his recruitment. And his older brother had—on a whim—taught him the stories of the constellations that glittered in the stark desert sky. By the time the sun had risen, he had made his own constellations and was entertaining Lucifer with his storytelling.

 

But, Gabriel felt his smile turn to a grimace when he thought about that mission…and the one that happened after. The man could proudly say that there was very little that he regretted doing in life, but that job was haunting him still. And in the quiet, lonely dark of his bedroom, it ate away the worst, with the rest of the bad memories he tried so hard to bury. He sighed again and rose from the chair. He needed to change. Though he’d forgotten his own clothes, the Field House came fully stocked. He exchanged his suit jacket and dress shoes for a set of heavy black boots and olive tactical pants that fit well enough, feeling a little more at ease and tucking his gun back into its holster. There would be no sleep for him tonight if he didn’t rest now, but still he paced until he heard Sam’s door shut with a bang.

 

Gabriel wandered out of the house and into the grounds again when he was sure Sam was asleep. The kitchen was empty, the house deathly quiet. The skin on the back of his neck bristled at the silence but, after puttering around the kitchen and filling a mug of coffee, the assassin let himself back out into the courtyard of the Field House and sat listlessly under the stars. He traced the constellations in the sky and told all the stories he wanted to share with Sam to the dark until the sun began to pink the horizon.


	9. Breakfast Tensions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry, this is super fast-paced, but i was really stuck here so i kind of gave it up. i'm sorry

 

Gabriel awoke to the harsh chirping of birds and the sun in his face. He’d fallen asleep, propped against the wall under a window basket of dying vines like some kind of young buck.  Idiot.  He tried to sit up and groaned when cold, stiff muscles protested the movement. God, how long had he been asleep out there? The clock on the mantle said 10:30 as he wandered back inside, snugging his pistol tight in its holster. Only four hours then, enough sleep to hold him up and…enough time for something to have happened to Sam. A quick peek down the hall revealed his door was open. Gabriel cocked his head, but he couldn’t hear anything that sounded like Sam up and about. He snuck through the dining room and into the kitchen, apprehension growing.

 

Ah.

 

Sam was sitting in the breakfast nook, and he started when Gabriel stepped inside, dropping his fork and eyeing the pistol strapped to his shoulder. The assassin smiled softly and put his hands in front of himself in a disarming manner, even though it didn’t seem to make Sam relax at all. Gabriel’s heart clenched.

 

“Hey,” he murmured, leaning against the bar, “you ok?”

 

Sam sniffed and picked up his fork, nodding and shoveling eggs into his mouth much faster than necessary. Gabriel fiddled with some fruit in bowl, lost for words. What could he say? Every line of Sam’s body was tense and unhappy, screaming at him to leave, but he couldn't leave without saying  _something_.

 

“What’s the plan? It’s a beautiful day,” he blurted out.  He winced. Had that really just come out of his mouth?

 

Sam resolutely stared out the kitchen window and ate his breakfast. The silence stretched until Gabriel’s skin was very nearly itching with it.

 

“Look,” he sighed, “I know you’re sore at me—”

 

“You’re damn right I’m ‘sore at you’!” Sam declared in a mocking tone, shoving his plate away and stalking to the sink.

 

“Sam—”

 

“ _No_ , Gabriel,” he nearly shouted, dropping the dishes thunderously, “you listen to me _right now_. You’ve lied to me, nearly kidnapped me, handed me a gun and expected me to just go along with this. You come in here and try to make small talk? Do you even give a damn about what I think? Do you even grasp that someone is coming to kill us and that this might be a first for me?!”

 

The assassin wanted to gape, to stare and let the hurt he felt spill over his face. Instead, he grasped his hands behind his back and squared his shoulders. Sam had never raised his voice, never lost his cool. In fact, if it weren’t happening right in front of him, he wouldn’t have believed it. But, if Sam needed someone to rail at, a rock to break against, then who was he to deny him that?

 

“I have no plan for today,” Sam spat, “I don’t even know if I’m going to make it to tomorrow. So, excuse me, I’m not in the mood to discuss the fucking weather.”

 

Gabriel took a step forward, poised to argue. “Look—”

 

“What about my career? I had to call Dean to cancel three shows, no notice, and disappeared off the map! What am I going to do if we do make it out of this? No, Gabe,” he said, trying to reign in his temper and deflating, “just… Just leave me alone. Give me some time to…process this.”

 

The assassin waited until Sam looked at him again, then gently took hold of Sam’s wrist, smoothing a thumb over his racing pulse. Sam tensed, poised as if to run, until Gabriel said, “Of course I care, sugar. I care about how you’re feelin’, I’m just trying to catch up myself. Nothing like this has ever happened to me. I don’t know what else to do.” He looked up, caught in Sam’s wild eyes.

 

“I get you want time but, Sam, time ain’t something we got a lot of. I’m askin’ a lot, I know,” he said as Sam’s eyes hardened into a glare, “but I need you to follow my orders—stay inside—so I can keep you _safe_.”

 

Sam sighed heavily out his nose and nodded, mollified. He slipped from Gabriel’s grasp. “I’m goin' to the library,” he murmured. “Breakfast is on the stove.”

 

Gabriel stared in surprise as Sam left. Two eggs over easy and a piece of toast sat in a pan, warming over a low flame. Gabriel’s stomach leapt. Despite his anger, Sam had still made him breakfast, eggs just how he liked. He tried not to make too much of it, but no matter the justification, he couldn’t weigh down the happy feeling in his stomach.

 

 

He wished he could say that Sam was avoiding him, but in truth it was the other way round. Gabriel studiously avoided the kitchen and the library—in fact, the whole house—for the rest of the day, guilt burning in his gut.  After sneaking out with a chocolate bar and a rifle, he paced the boundaries of the house over and over and over. He could faintly hear the traffic from the street, but nothing out of the ordinary. Frustration settled into his bones with the cold. How could he keep Sam safe if he knew next to nothing? Surely some news would be better than not knowing, but the Network had squat, and he resumed his frustrated pacing.

 

As the sun started to set, he crept back inside. He deposited the rifle and his pistol on his bed and allowed himself a short, hot shower before he called Morningstar again.

 

“Identify,” said the croaking, distorted voice.

 

“Loki,” he said with a sigh, “Reaper Division, 65807-0502, requesting update.”

 

A pause, murmurs in the background. “No new information has been reported, Reaper,” the voice said before disconnecting with a click.

 

He sighed. The operators’ bedside manners left a lot to be desired, but the information Network was second to none. The Network was updated every three hours with reports from the wire, from field agents, everywhere within the Agency and only a call to the secured number would glean all the information he needed. So, in this instance, no news was bad news.

 

Gabriel threw on a fresh set of clothes and checked his stitches before sneaking up to the roof. The vantage point would be useful and, even though clouds had rolled in and covered the stars, the sky gave him a small comfort through the chill of the night and into the morning.

 

* * *

 

After one last turn around the grounds in the early light, Gabriel flopped onto his bed and snatched a few hours of sleep. When he rose around noon, groggy but not feeling any worse for wear, he stumbled into the kitchen for some food. Privately, he hoped the smells would draw Sam out into the kitchen, so maybe he could try again, but he was nowhere to be seen. After, he checked all the guns in the house and placed another call to the Network.

 

There was news. Sort of. Cohen’s men were moving in Chicago, but there was no telling if they were able to ferret out their location yet. Agents were monitoring their movement, but they hadn’t made any suspicious actions, no more than usual anyway. Deciding this was good news, Gabriel checked the places he thought Sam might be so he could share it. Maybe it would perk him up a little.  Maybe they could go home soon and he could fix things.

 

The courtyard was empty and there wasn’t any trace of the man there, nothing out of place. The library was similarly empty. A chair had been pulled out next to the fireplace and a stack of books sat next to an unfinished cup of coffee, but the singer wasn’t there. Even his bedroom remained empty, all of the belongings he’d packed still in bags at the foot of the bed. Gabriel’s concern grew. A quick search of the rest of the house and Sam was nowhere to be found. Gabriel started to feel panic creep into his limbs. Had someone managed to get past the fence and into the house while he slept? Had Sam left of his own volition, despite the danger?

 

No, the car was still in the garage, the keys secure in the pantry. Gabriel’s measured pace grew more frantic as he searched the front. Maybe he’d been walking outside and set off some traps? No. Sam’s tall frame wasn’t lying prone upon the cold ground, and though Gabriel felt a small measure of relief at that, Sam was nowhere to be seen. At last, the assassin sprinted around the back of the house to the rocky beach behind, pistol drawn. And there, sitting at the damp, cold edge of the lake just in front the boathouse, was Sam.

 

 

 

  
Gabriel’s breath hitched when he looked at him. The singer was surely getting damp. The water was seeping up through the rocks into the fabric of his pants, but he didn’t seem to care. He was folded into himself, tossing rocks listlessly into the water. Gabriel approached slowly, tucking his gun away and making plenty of noise so Sam could hear him coming. It wouldn’t do to scare the man with his silent steps again.

 

He didn’t turn, or even acknowledge that the assassin was standing close behind him, only continued throwing rocks and watching the ripples. Gabriel stood for a moment in the silence before softly saying, “Got a little news from Morningstar.”

 

Sam glanced at him over his shoulder, mouth downturned and nose red in the chill.

 

“No word on whether Cohen’s men have found the house. From the sound of it, they’re as flabbergasted as anyone else at our vanishing act. We’re keeping tabs on them.”

 

Sam nodded vaguely and went back to staring out over the water. After a minute or two of deafening silence from Sam and the quiet wash of water from the beach, Gabriel asked quietly, “Penny for your thoughts?”

 

Sam shrugged. “I reckon you’d have to pay more than that,” he murmured in reply. “I’m strictly opposed to petty bribery.”

 

Gabriel smiled faintly. There was his Sam, just a glimmer. “Everyone’s got a price,” he said, sinking to the gravel beside him. “Name yours.”

 

“You answer all of my questions.”

 

Gabriel scoffed lightly. “What, you writin’ a book? Don’t I get anything out of the deal?” he asked, only half teasing. God knew what kind of end that would come to…

 

Sam sighed, seemingly torn between exasperation and faint amusement. “Quid pro quo, then.”

 

Gabriel cocked his head, surprised at the answer.

 

“You answer my questions, I’ll answer yours, one at a time.”

 

Gabriel bit the inside of his lip. “All right,” he said tentatively. He wasn’t sure that this was a good idea. Hell, it was probably a terrible idea, but the faint look of pleased surprise that crossed Sam’s face gave him a glimmer of hope. And maybe, just maybe, he could repair some of the damage he had done…


	10. How?  Why?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel's history with Morningstar comes to light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to apologize for that last chapter, here's another one

“How?” When Gabriel shot him a confused look, Sam corrected himself. “I mean, how did you get started in all this? Why?”

 

Gabriel smiled, feeling shaky and something akin to terror building in his gut. “That’s two questions, sugar.”

 

Sam grimaced, and he repeated, “How?”

 

Gabriel drew in a breath, trying to calm himself. Horrific memories were simmering just under his skin and a part of him recoiled at having to expose even the smallest part of them. “I—My brother, he was drafted in 1940 for the war. I idolized him, wanted to do everything he could do, so as soon as I could join up, I did. Joined the Army in ’42, when I was just 18, and they figured I was good enough to be trained in the 2nd Ranger Battalion in ’43. Lucifer’d already been stationed with the 6th in the Pacific and I—shit, me and the rest of Easy Company took Pointe on D-Day. Got shot in the leg,” he said, slapping the scar on his thigh for emphasis, “tryin’ to take Hill 400 six months later.”

 

Sam’s face was incredulous, eyes wide and focused on Gabriel’s thigh, jaw slack. “You—Gabe, you’re—” He floundered, fingers twitching as if he remembered the feel of that scar.

 

“Yeah.  Ended up in a hospital in France after some medics picked me up. Finished out the war after they patched me up,” Gabriel replied with a heavy, awkward sigh. “Anyway, that’s how this all got started. They didn’t just pick me up off the street, you know.”

 

Sam looked at him pensively, maybe even a little fearfully, then faced the water. “Your go,” he murmured.

 

Gabriel thought for a moment. There was so much about the man he didn’t know, so much he could ask. But after that? No chance in hell he could bring himself to ask something serious. Not yet. So, swallowing the bile in his throat with a wag of his eyebrows, he asked, “How d’you feel about birthday sex?”

 

Sam stared at him for a split second, then he laughed. Laughed so outrageously that his dimples must have been aching by the time he got himself under control. God, that was just what Gabriel had been hoping for. Something, anything, to lighten the oppressiveness. Banish the bad memories.

 

“Why-he, why d'you want to know that?” Sam asked, aghast.

 

“C’mon, it’s an honest question,” Gabriel said. “I don’t even know when your birthday is, Sam. I’d say that’s a little sad, wouldn’t you?”

 

 _For someone who’s as crazy for you as I am_ , was the part he left unspoken. But Sam, smart, clever Sam, seemed to grasp that unspoken addition and flushed just slightly.

 

“May 2, 1930,” he said softly.  He paused, thinking, then he smiled again. "I think I might like it.  I haven't--er, it's been a while since I've had...something like that."

 

Gabriel smiled in relief and sat back against the rocks. He knew what was coming next, he knew exactly what Sam was going to ask, and he knew he had to pretend that all of this was alright. For Sam’s sake, he had to pretend that these questions weren’t making his skin crawl, even after all these years. The singer blew out a breath and glanced at him, just as nervous to ask as Gabriel was to answer. But still, the question came.

 

“How’d you end up with Morningstar?” Gabriel opened his mouth to answer, but Sam wasn’t finished. “I mean, Ranger to assassin. How?”

 

Gabriel sat forward and looked out over the water. “I stayed with the Rangers after the war was over. At that point, I figured I wasn’t much good anywhere else and I loved those boys. They were family, you know? Or, what was left of 'em, anyway. I knew Lucifer had made it back, but I didn't see much of him. Five years later, in 1950, the first official Ranger training was offered and I took it, just for a laugh. Passed with flying colors. Apparently, someone over at Morningstar had a bug in their ear about the Ranger program and they recruited me as soon as I got my merits.”

 

He ran an errant hand through his hair and huffed a laugh. “At first, I was really put off by the whole thing,” he continued. “Lucifer and I nearly had a huge fallin’ out over it, killin’ people like we were. But then, I saw the good that it actually did, so I kept the job. They get only what they deserve, the marks. Hoisted on their own petards, you might say.”

 

Sam’s smile had faded.  He obviously wasn’t pleased with Gabriel’s answer. He pursed his lips and folded his arms over his knees, pulling in tight to himself. Gabriel frowned, perturbed. The kid wanted answers, but didn’t seem to want them once he had them, and it was frustrating him goddamn it. Still, he held his tongue until Sam absorbed it. He owed him that much, at least.

 

“Next,” Sam said quietly, daring to look at Gabriel.  

 

Gabriel felt his impatience ease. Now, he could ask the question that’d been burning through him since he met Dean. “Where are your folks? I mean, who else’ve you got, besides Deano? You never talk about them.”

 

Sam stiffened, and Gabriel was suddenly afraid that he’d asked too much too soon. But, the singer relaxed and sighed, as if he knew the question was coming. Sam bent his head and rested it on folded arms. Gabriel felt a pang in his heart, and he wished he could take the question back. Sam looked so young, and so lost. The silence dragged on until finally he spoke.

 

“My…mom died when I was just a kid. Fire on the ranch. We were drivin’ cattle up to the summer grounds, where there was more water. It’d been a dry season, and one of the hands had been smoking. Tossed his cigar out into the field and didn’t put it out. We lost half the herd…and my mother. My father had been pretty successful until then. I mean, we never went hungry. After Momma died, he went off the rails. I loved my father, but I think in the end he loved her more than us. After he died, we stayed with our uncle in Kansas.”

 

It looked as if he might say more, until he caught sight of Gabriel staring, waiting. Then, the singer clamped his mouth shut.

 

“Were there more good times than bad?” Gabriel asked gently.

 

That brought a sad smile to Sam’s lips. “Yeah,” he said into the fabric of his jacket sleeves. Then, he shook himself and side-eyed the assassin. “That was two questions.”

 

Gabriel sat back and raised his hands with a tentative smile. “Sorry.”

 

Sam stared at the calm surface of the water and asked in a rough voice, “Why d'you do this?”

 

Gabriel felt his throat close up slightly. What a question.

 

“Why does anyone do anything?” he asked softly. When Sam frowned at him, he said, “To make a difference, Sam.”

 

His lover’s frown didn’t lessen at that.

 

“You might not see it in the same way, but the only reason anyone does anything is to feel like they’re making a difference. And these people I kill—and make no mistake, I kill ‘em—” Sam shuddered, but Gabriel couldn’t bring himself to soften the harsh truth of it. “I do it because, if I don’t, they’re going to off more people than I ever will. Or, in the worst cases, they already have.”

 

Sam’s mouth pinched in thought as he stared over the water, and Gabriel found he was short of breath, looking at Sam looking like he did. “How many?” Sam asked. He didn’t specify, but Gabriel knew exactly what he was asking and the light, fluttering feeling in his chest solidified and sank into his stomach. Did he dare tell him?


	11. Gabriel's Regret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's new, it's heartbreaking, it's cliche, and it's here for your enjoyment! Some heavy themes are still being discussed between Sam and Gabriel, so here's your trigger warning. Depression, death, feelings of worthlessness, all that jazz. But I promise it won't be like this for the rest of the story, and it even ends on a light-ish note

The silence stretched, and he collected his thoughts.  Shit, this was gonna get rough.

 

 

 

 

“Five hundred seventy one.”

 

Sam sucked in a sharp breath.

 

“Give or take some. I’ve been doin’ this since I was a kid, much younger than you are now,” Gabriel said. “Eight years with the Rangers, eight with Morningstar, all over the world. Shit adds up.”

 

Sam’s eyes widened, and he looked vaguely horrified. Gabriel grimaced. “In comparison to some, my number is small,” he offered, even though he knew it wouldn’t lessen the blow at all.

 

Well, the kid had wanted the truth. Sam’s mouth tightened, but he seemed to be wrestling with the rest of what the assassin had said and the look on his face was sneaking away. “So, you’re just a soldier, right? You kill the people you need to? No more?”

 

Gabriel worked that thought over. Was he just a soldier anymore? Did he just kill who needed to be killed? Gabriel was quiet for a moment. Despite his penchant for explosives, he supposed it might be true. Agent Lilith had garnered the reputation for a complete disregard for life, taking out everyone in the vicinity of her target. Was he that ruthless?

 

"No more," he conceded.

 

Sam hummed and Gabriel was relieved to see that he didn't seem put off by his answer as he muttered, “Your go.”

 

“What did you do before the singing?”

 

Sam’s eyebrows shot up.

 

“I mean, if you weren’t working on the ranch and under Daddy’s thumb, surely there must have been something that you wanted to do. You talk like an educated man, and judgin’ from the books on your shelves, you must’ve gone to school. Done something that you thought was going to make a difference.”

 

Sam scoffed. “You don’t—” He cut himself off and pursed his lips. “What makes you think I wanted to do something different?”

 

He smiled sadly. “Sugar, I know you.” The singer inhaled, preparing to cut him off, and Gabriel grabbed his hand. “You may not think so, and I may not know you like I want to, but I paid attention to you, Sam. I watched you pour your heart out to people behind that microphone five days a week,” he said, playing with the man’s long fingers.

 

“I saw the way you would always leave some of your cut to tip the staff good where you sang. Or give to the nuns’ orphanage on Sundays, even though you don’t go to church. I know that you care. You care so much that sometimes you ache with it; I’ve seen it. I’ve heard it, in your music. You can’t tell me that you didn’t want to make a difference.”

 

Sam’s mouth tightened unhappily, and he shot to his feet. He looked as if he might bolt, but he gathered himself and clenched his hands at his sides.

 

“I wanted to be a lawyer.”

 

Gabriel’s eyebrows went up. Of all the things, that was not what he had been expecting.  Now that he'd heard it, it made good sense.  The singer was struggling with something, an internal debate, and Gabriel's curiosity grew.  He scrambled to stand and stared at Sam.

 

“I was going to school, at Stanford, and I quit.  And do you know why I quit? Because there wasn’t any hope. I sang as a side gig to pay for school until I couldn’t take it anymore. Every class, every professor I had told me that no matter what I did, someone would always lose. That in and of itself should have been bearable, but it weighed on me, along with the expectations my father had thrown at me all my life.  I was just so...lost."

 

Gabriel frowned at him and took a half-step closer. "What do you mean?"

 

"I--" Sam faltered. "It felt like nothin' I did mattered.  The whole world just seemed to weigh down on me with expectations that I'd never be able to fulfill.  I felt useless, worthless.  Everything I did was like rolling a stone uphill and watching fall again and again and again.  My classes, my books, my friends, nothing made me happy.  I didn't know what to do, so I...became not myself.  I tried to just go through it, but in the end I gave up.  There was only one thing that made me happy.  Just the singing, because I didn't have to be myself. I was so out of hope that I-- I left. I had a girlfriend and a great life, bright future, all of that. But I was so...empty, I just—I left.” He cut himself off, running a hand nearly frantically through his long hair.

 

“Do you regret it?” Gabriel challenged.

 

Sam fixed him with sharp, steely eyes. “Yes. I just...wanted to be regular, normal. Haven’t you ever regretted something?”

 

Gabriel felt stung at the accusation in Sam’s face. “Of course I have!”

 

The singer was silent, goading him with hard eyes. “Tell me.”

 

Gabriel slumped. “Sam, this—It’s not a pretty story.”

 

“Tell me. Please,” he repeated, teeth clenched.

 

“There’s no justice, no moral ending wrapped in righteousness,” Gabriel said, “I—Even my brother doesn’t know the whole story.”

 

“Please.”

 

Gabriel crumbled under the singer’s harsh eyes and pleading words. “There was a…job,” he started, throat constricting. “It was one of my first. I’d just finished a mission in Nevada with my brother, and this one was the first on my own. June 29th, 1951; I was 27. At the time, I thought I was a pretty experienced killer. The mark was a visitin' with her dignitary husband or some such, but the rub was she’d been a Nazi. Working in the camps doin’ experiments in Treblinka and Dachau. Got out of the Trials by the skin of her teeth. No one figured her ‘cause she was a doll, you follow me?”

 

Gabriel chanced a glance at Sam, curiosity and faint disgust peeking through his hard exterior. “Pretty as a peach. By the time I got to her, she’d been married, had a couple kids not more than three or four years old. Livin’ like a regular Ivy Leaguer. I couldn’t get close, not even with a cover. Reporters weren’t allowed near and if they did manage an interview with the husband, she was far and away. She—They were drivin’ through New York, so I followed them back to their hotel. Dad left, I snuck in, and I shot her.”

 

He heard Sam gasp, and he felt sick. He hadn’t come to the worst. That wasn’t even the part he regretted…

 

“I shot her. Just once, quick and clean, just like I was supposed to.  At first, I was pretty pleased with how the mission had gone. But—god help me—I didn’t see those two kids in the bathroom. I’d forgot all about them. She’d been givin’ those little babes a bath, and I splattered her brains all over the wall while they played. The shot was…I had a silencer, but the oldest kid heard the noise and came callin’ for his mama. And there he stood, buck naked in the door of the bathroom, staring right at me. He started crying, asked me what happened to his mama…”

 

Sam flinched. “What did you do?” he asked hesitantly, as if he didn’t even want to know.

 

“I—I left. Procedure said to eliminate witnesses, anyone that could tie me to the death since it was so high profile, but I just…couldn’t do it. I couldn't kill those kids, and it's not like they could really tell anybody who I was. Got a service phone down the hall and called the front desk, then cut outta there. Left those babes cryin’ in the bath and walked away. Later, in the news, some sick bastard had taken pictures of the kids. They were smeared with blood, like they’d been tryin’ to wake her up and slipped in the puddle of it on the floor.”

 

Sam looked like he would be sick and turned away.

 

“So,” Gabriel said with an air of finality, voice stronger even as threatening tears constricted his throat, “now you know the worst. I regret not finishing the job where those kids couldn’t see. I’ll never forgive myself for what I did to them. I’m a killer, Sam, but I’m not a monster. I’d take back every good kill I ever made if it meant that I could do that job over again and keep those kids from the worst of it.”

 

The singer sighed deeply and rubbed a hand over his face, the action twisting Gabriel’s guts into knots. For what felt like hours, the silence dragged on. Gabriel turned, crossing his arms over himself and staring out over the water like a man condemned to death. Then, Sam murmured, “Look, I—I’m sorry,” in quiet reprieve.

 

Gabriel froze, defense poised on his tongue until he registered what had been said.  Then, he floundered. “You? You’re sorry? Jesus Christ, Sam, what are you sorry for?”

 

“I’m sorry that I’ve been so…callous. Sorry for pushing you away. You’ve tried to do what you thought was best, in this backwards way. I don’t agree with killing people, but if you don’t do it, someone else obviously will. And they might not care as much as you. Hell, they might’ve killed those kids. I just—Gabe, you’re the antithesis to everything I stand for.”

 

Gabriel gaped and wanted desperately to disagree, but Sam continued on. “You work for an organization that completely disregards the rules that built the civilized world. You’re brutes, and you kill people for a paycheck.”

 

Gabriel felt stricken, like he might be sick, but why? Why did Sam’s opinion matter so much?  As the assassin watched thoughts tumble down Sam’s face, every fiber of him screamed he was more than what he started as. God help him, but Sam was more than just a good time. He could feel it somewhere deep in his gut, even if he couldn't admit it to himself, and it tore at him to see Sam like this.

 

“But,” Sam said, and Gabriel’s heart leapt, “hearing your perspective is…enlightening. On some level, I reckon I realize that these people might… Shit, as much as I hate to admit it, they deserve it. You’re not inhuman, for all that Morningstar has tried to make you so. You have feelings, doubts, regrets, just like any other man, and you’re goin' through just as much as I am, if not more. Despite all of the violence your Agency wreaks, you’ve made it your priority to save all the people you can. You made it your priority to save me… So, there’s good in you. And...I think I can live with that.”

 

The assassin felt lighter, all of a sudden. He hadn’t realized how much he needed another person to acknowledge his own humanity, twisted as it was. He wanted to latch to Sam’s words and let them fill him up but, as every time before, he found he couldn’t lie and tell Sam what he wanted to hear. So, in a bitter voice, he said, “I don’t regret my job, Sam. I regret doing the wrong thing, not thinkin’ like I should have, gettin’ involved.”

 

“Do you regret this?” Sam asked, quietly. “Gettin' involved, I mean.”

 

Gabriel looked at him wildly. “Do you mean do I regret you?” he demanded. “Because if you’re implying that you weren’t one of the best damn things that has ever happened to me, I swear to god, Sam Winchester, I will punch you in the mouth.”

 

Sam looked taken aback. “You don’t even know me,” he said quietly. He seemed defeated, and Gabriel felt guilt burn in his gut.

 

“But I want to,” Gabriel declared, taking a swift step into Sam’s space. “There’s so much I want to know about you. I want more than just a taste of you. I want to know what makes you happy, what makes you sad, what you want for Christmas, for christ sake.”

 

Sam’s cheeks pinked just slightly and he gaped. “Gabriel, I—”

 

His brain was screaming at him to stop, that he was revealing too much too fast. That he was opening a weak spot. But he went on because, hell, if anyone could be a weakness in him, it was Sam, and soldiering on was what he did best. Consequences be damned. He was already so wrapped up in the man that his enemies knew where to squeeze to hurt him. He grabbed fistfuls of the singer’s sweatervest and yanked him down. What was this man doing to him?

 

“Dammit, Sam—” Then, he was crushing his mouth to Sam’s.


	12. Tenuous Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand we're grinding again. sorry. again self-edited, so mistakes are mine

The singer’s lips were stiff under his for a moment, but only a moment. Then, Sam was pressing against him, taking hold of his wrists almost angrily and pulling him as close as he could. Gabriel groaned quietly, thankfully. Of all the reactions, this was honestly not the one he expected. Come on. Passionate kisses in the heat of an argument? He really expected to be socked in the jaw. Who knew that shit could actually work? He tangled his fingers in Sam’s dark hair and bit into his soft bottom lip. Desperately. That was the word that sprang to mind to describe the way he held onto Sam, and he almost felt foolish. Regardless, he clung to the man's shirt and kissed him until Sam pulled away gently.

 

Gabriel fixed him with a crooked, self-depreciating grin and ran his thumb over Sam's cheek. “This counts as serious bribery, right?”

 

Sam laughed, low and frustrated.

 

"This mean you forgive me?"

 

The singer bent, pressed his forehead to Gabriel’s and huffed, hands still wrapped loosely around his wrists. “I want to,” he murmured. “ _God_ , I want to.”

 

The assassin could hear the conflict in his voice and stepped back. “Stay mad at me,” he said softly. “I deserve it, and I won’t push ya. I should never have put you in this position. Sugar, you were all I could think to get back to. I wasn’t thinkin’ right, and I’m sorry.”

 

Sam offered him a small smile. “I haven’t forgiven you,” he said firmly, “yet. Jesus, Gabe, you scared the hell out of me. It—god, it terrified me, you showing up like you did. But I trust you.” He stepped forward and pressed his lips to Gabriel’s cheek, causing his breath to stutter just slightly when the singer pulled away again. “Come on,” he said, tugging gently at Gabriel’s arm.

 

The pair walked back to the Field House in what felt like the first comfortable silence in ages. Gabriel stared at the ground, feeling lighter than air. At last, someone knew the worst of him. It was a strange feeling, being so exposed. All his training rebelled against what he had done though, strangely enough, he didn’t regret it.

 

Sam was quiet, but he let his fingers tangle with Gabriel’s for a few steps before he released him and shoved traitorous hands into his pockets. Just that small action had the assassin’s stomach twisting. When Sam sauntered into the kitchen, Gabriel’s stomach protested the idea of food, but he cooked for Sam anyway. He laughed and teased and finally felt a hint of the domesticity, of the happiness they’d shared back in Sam’s little white house creep back into the room with the man’s smile and fill the hollow space in his chest. When Sam had tucked himself back into the library with a fresh cup of coffee, Gabriel followed and chanced another kiss, stealing the cup and pressing Sam’s warm fingers to his lips.

 

“I’m gonna be just outside,” he murmured. Sam’s eyes flickered to his ever-present gun, pupils wide, and a muscle jumped in his jaw like he wanted to protest, but he only nodded solemnly and curled his lanky frame into the chair before the fire. Gabriel paused at the doorway, caught up for a moment, watching Sam open a book across his knee and push the hair from his face. Christ, would he ever be over just how damn beautiful the man was? A little voice in the back of his mind said _no, no you won’t_. He shook himself, grabbed his rifle from the foyer, and let himself out.

 

 

 

 

The wind of the afternoon bit into Gabriel’s skin and his wounds ached as he climbed atop the roof. He was resilient, but he wouldn't be able to keep going like this alone for long. A few years ago, maybe, but he wasn't exactly young anymore, and he knew if they faced any serious attack he wouldn't be at full capacity. And that worried him. Sam might be handy with a gun, but the kid hadn't ever seen a real fight. He'd be willing to put money on that. Trying to clear his thoughts, he shook his head again and looked down the drive.

 

From his vantage, he could see all the way to the end of the long drive and, for a while, he sat and watched regardless of the cold. Above the bulletproof windows of the Field House, Gabriel felt the tension in his shoulders ease the longer he watched. No one was coming up the drive or sneaking through the trees, no one was threatening the tenuous peace he’d managed to forge. Maybe they wouldn't find them. Once or twice an hour, he wandered the fence line, until the sun dipped again below the horizon.

 

Limbs stiff and feet cold with the dusky October chill, he let himself into the library. He could hear Sam shuffling among the shelves, but he only smiled and stood in front of the fire, hands extended to the flame. The singer was humming softly, totally engrossed in whatever he was searching for, and heat soaked into Gabriel’s bones. Some of the exhaustion he felt started seeping in. He sank down into the chair. God, it felt good to sit and be warm. He hadn’t realized just how cold he really was. Shit, he probably hadn’t been this cold since November in France. It was in his bones, dull and frigid. Gabriel felt his eyelids droop, lulled into a doze by the soft turning of pages and the crackle of flame.

 

 

||~~||

 

 

A light, shuffling sound jolted him out of sleep. Gabriel lurched forward, surprised to find himself wrapped in a blanket. His boots sat unlaced and off by the side of the chair, pistol unholstered and sitting on the side table nearby. Sam, it must have been Sam. The fire had gone out, the library quiet, lit only by a single lamp in the window, and the singer was nowhere to be seen. Gabriel blearily cocked his head and listened for the noise once more. Whatever it was, it wasn’t an innocent sound. Even quiet as it was, it was frantic, he knew that much.

 

There. Again, a distant rustle, behind the ticking of the clock and the soft patter of rain. This time, it was accompanied by a soft, low moan. Gabriel felt his every cell freeze. _Sam_.

 

With a move quick as a snake, he pulled a long, sharp knife from his right boot, holstered his gun, and checked the house as fast as his caution would allow. Each room he passed was empty, no signs of intrusion, and no sign of Sam. Gabriel growled. Shit. For being as tall as a fucking tree, the man was ridiculously hard to find when he needed to be. Again, there was a low moan and a rustle. It sounded like sheets twisting. Legs thrashing. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. The assassin sprinted to the bedroom on silent, socked feet and burst through the door.

 

But, it was only Sam, naked from the waist up and covered in a fine sheen of sweat, thrashing in his bed. Gabriel’s quick movements hadn’t woken him, and the singer twitched and mumbled. Carefully, Gabriel placed the knife on the bedside table and sat gently upon the bed. Sam’s incoherent mumbling was growing louder, more frantic, but Gabriel was still apprehensive. Should he wake him? When the boys of Easy Company had nightmares, it was only right that you’d wake them up. A swift kick in the bootheel, a gentle hand on a shoulder; no one needed to relive those memories and it was cruel to let 'em sleep when they were knee deep in the shit in their heads. But what about Sam? Would he panic, seeing Gabriel looming over him? Would he push him away? When he heard his name muttered in a frantic gasp, Gabriel decided. 


	13. Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The consequences of waking Sam may just be a reward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so next chapter is smut. i've promised smut and it will be here, so SUFFER THROUGH THIS ANGST WITH ME. also i feel like the monarch of italicization, but i NEEDED the EMPHASIS

Gabriel placed one hand on Sam’s broad shoulder, the other on his cheek, and gently shook. “Sam. Sam, sweetheart, wake up.”

 

Still, the singer twitched. Gabriel shook him a little more firmly, repeating his name in a calm voice. Sam moaned, low and frantic, eyes rolling behind closed lids, and the assassin took his face in both hands. Sam thrashed, digging his fingers into Gabriel’s side in a painful grip.

 

“Sam!”

 

The singer’s eyes flew open. “ _Loki! No!_ ”

 

Gabriel froze. His codename was torn from Sam’s lips in a desperate, distraught tone, and the look in his eyes was a deep and nameless fear. At least, until, he realized who was bent over him. Relief tinged his fear, and his tall frame seemed to shrink as he curled beneath the assassin.

 

“Gabriel—” Sam choked, shifting his iron grasp from Gabriel’s sides to his arms.

 

The older man held tight to Sam and banished any fear that may have crept onto his own face as the singer’s chest heaved against him. Shit, what could he do? What could he say? Goddamn it but Sam made him feel so helpless. Useless.

 

"I've got you, Sam," he murmured, pulling him close and wrapping him in a firm hold. "I gotcha."

 

Sam stiffened, blood quickly rushing through him and pulsing against Gabriel's skin. He held tight to Gabriel's arms but didn't move, still caught in a daze. When his breathing had slowed to a regular pace, the assassin released him slowly and sat back upon the bed. A muscle jumped in Sam's jaw, and he wouldn't meet Gabriel's questioning gaze. They sat, thick silence filling the room, until Gabriel cleared his throat.

 

"You ok?" he asked, fidgeting with a loose string on the blanket still tangled around Sam's legs.

 

Sam took a deep, shuddering breath and nodded. The motion caused a few errant strands of hair to fall into his eyes and, when he pulled them back with a shaking hand, he finally met Gabriel's eyes.

 

"Do you want--you know? Do you need to--" Gabriel fumbled. Somehow, despite saying the words probably a thousand times, he couldn't get them out right.

 

"It was you," Sam said in a rush. "I was dreaming of you."

 

Gabriel winced internally but cracked a lopsided smile. What else could he do? "And? I promise I'm as dirty as you can dream."

 

Sam threw him a disapproving face--really, that ought to be called his bitching face--and dragged the blanket higher on his waist.

 

"You were killing people."

 

This time, Gabriel did wince. Immediately, the silly, disarming grin slid off his face and he hopped to his feet. Fuck, the look on Sam's face was running him through. He felt sure that if he moved too fast, his guts would fall out all over the floor. "Well...no sense makin' this any worse," he mumbled. "'M just down the hall, if you need me."

 

He snagged his blade and padded silently to the door, holding the knife loosely in his fingers. But, as he turned to close the door, he heard Sam slide from the bed. The man's large hand caught the door as he moved to shut it, and Sam stood silhouetted in the doorway.

 

"That wasn't the nightmare," he said softly.

 

"You don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to," Gabriel mumbled, shuffling back away from the singer.

 

" _You_ were the nightmare, not their deaths. They were trying to kill you, too," Sam said, following close behind and catching Gabriel by the arm.

 

Gabriel frowned and started walking away again. "Hell, sugar, you're givin' me all kinds of mixed up ideas here. It have somethin' to do with you yellin' _that_ name in particular?" He scoffed. "Not that I'd be all that opposed to you yellin' that name in a more private situa--"

 

Sam stepped quickly into his space, backing him up against the wall of the hallway, pinning him with one thick forearm across his chest. Defiance curled in Gabriel, but he winced when his stitches pulled.

 

"Gee, Sam-a-lam, I get all tingly when you get possessive," Gabriel said with a snarl in his lip.

 

"I dreamed you were _dying_ ," Sam ground out. "I could picture it, clear as day."

 

"I--"

 

"Your _blood_ ," he interrupted with a push of his arm, "was smeared all over the wall above my bed, just like that woman's. Trickling into my mattress, soaking into my floor."

 

"Your attention to detail astounds me," Gabriel said, voice rough. "I'm so glad that, of all of what I told you, that's what you wanted to remember."

 

Sam growled and pressed his arm tighter to Gabriel's chest. "Fuck you," he replied. "I wouldn't be having nightmares if I weren't _worrying_ about you. Why can't you take this seriously? Ever since we've been here, I haven't seen hardly hide or hair of you. You disappear for hours at a time, expecting me to be here when you get back. You want me to just duck my head and pray? I'm not just some _thing_ you can put on a shelf and watch."

 

Gabriel leaned back against the wall, anger rising. "You wanted your space," he snarled, "I mean, you weren't exactly beggin' to have me around. There's only so many times I can say I'm sorry. So, I'm sorry. I fucked up. What more d'you want from me? I don't have to take this from you, _sweetheart_."

 

Really, if he wanted to get away, there would be no stopping him. Sam's balance was tenuous at best, and the wallpaper was slick against Gabriel's shirt. The singer didn't have even a fraction of the training he did; he wouldn't stand a chance. But Sam looked as if he were on the verge of something and against his better judgement, Gabriel stayed put. Sam's eyes flicked down. Before he could make a crack, the man's long fingers had drawn the knife from his hand. The singer's green-hazel eyes glinted in the light it threw, and he slowly brought the blade up.

 

Gabriel's eyes narrowed but he didn't flinch. He only stared at Sam, challenge in his eye. Then, the singer threw the knife down the hall. Gabriel heard it land with a clatter and his brow wrinkled in frustration.

 

"What do you want from me?" he asked again, enunciating each word.

 

Sam struggled for a moment, but the pressure of his arm never wavered. It was as if he thought, if he couldn't hold Gabriel there, then he'd never get the right words out. "You've been protecting me. Barely sleeping, hardly eating, and it's beginning to show. On your face. I know you're tired. I can help you, if you'd tell me what to do. I want...god help me, but I want you... I need you _on my side_. You can't fight for me without me."

 

Gabriel felt his jaw drop open slightly, lips parting just so, quite simply blindsided by the soft, desperate tone of Sam's voice. Sam's eyes flickered down to his mouth, back to his eyes, then down again, looking as a parched man desperate to drown. Like he couldn't make himself say the words if he looked the assassin in the face.

 

"I want you," he whispered, lips inches from Gabriel's, "to trust me. Talk to me, don't make me pull it from you. Let me back in, Gabriel."

 

"Sam--"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sam pressed forward and sealed his lips against Gabriel's gently.

His kiss was everything Gabriel's wasn't. Where the assassin was messy and more than a little savage, Sam was a slow, searing, full-body affair. His tongue dipped into Gabriel's mouth, savoring and sedate. Tortuously slow, he slid his free hand down Gabriel's side and behind his back, slipping under his untucked shirt, rough hands caressing the soft skin he found there, mindful to avoid the stitches on his side. When Gabriel pressed against the arm still holding him to the wall, Sam let his hand fall and rest on the assassin's hip, pulling him flush against him. Gabriel could only hold onto him, dazed and mercilessly ensnared. When he recovered his senses, fit his thigh between Sam's legs and _pushed_.

 

Sam staggered back and hit the opposite wall with a soft grunt, and Gabriel followed, biting into the soft meat of his throat. Then, he paused. He needed to think. This couldn't be anything except what Sam wanted. It couldn't be payment. Couldn't be guilt. Though every muscle screamed to push Sam into the bedroom and take what he was so obviously offering, he hesitated. Sam gasped and made a quiet, desperate noise when Gabriel stopped. The assassin had reversed their position and, when Sam pushed against Gabriel and didn't move, he hissed a sibilant of frustration.

 

"Sam--" he began, but the words stuck.

 

The younger man brought his hands up to rest on Gabriel's solid shoulders, gripping him tight and carefully skirting the stitched wound on his arm, posture pleading.

 

"I meant what I said," he tried again. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. Nothing like this has ever happened to me." He looked up, caught in Sam's near-wild eyes, the flush of his skin, the expression so like and unlike his anger. "I didn't know what else to do."

 

_I don't know what to do now_ , was what lingered between them.

 

Sam sighed softly, pushing harder against Gabriel's grip until the older man was pressed up the length of him. "This is a give and take. You've taken enough. I've held this anger, and I won't do it anymore. I can't. So, I forgive you."

 

Gabriel let his grip go slack and Sam stood straight, hands tight on Gabriel's shoulders. "Just like that?" he asked softly.

 

"Just like that," Sam breathed.


	14. Victory, Savage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god i'm so sorry. this is probably twice the length of the other chapters and i'm really no good at this

"I kill people, Sam," Gabriel said in a firm tone. It wasn't that he thought Sam had forgotten--how could he--but the openness with which Sam forgave shook him. Brought up his defenses again. It can't be that simple. "That's not the part you can forgive," he declared. "I'm all or nothin'."

 

Sam pursed his lips but didn't argue. "I know," he replied, voice low, "but I don't have to. I think I can live with what you do. You're--It's not transparent, not black and white. It never is, and it never will be." He paused and looked at the assassin meaningfully. "I'm not naive, Gabriel."

 

Sam bent again, realigning himself and loosening his grip, inviting the assassin in. There was no going back, no point of return, not for Gabriel. The perception of the world seemed to shift and it was much, much brighter when Sam smiled crookedly down at him. His lips parted, and Sam stole his breath with a soft press of his lips. The singer was soft, apologetic, and it stoked a fire in Gabriel's gut that needed more. Sam seemed content to torture him there in the hallway, and that just wouldn't do.

 

Gabriel wrapped his arms around Sam's neck and pulled the man down, urging him to get with the program. Sam fit his hands under Gabriel's thighs and lifted him from the floor, twisting and pinning him to the wall in a covetous display that left the assassin gasping. God, that was more like it. The older man groaned deep in his throat and crossed his ankles behind Sam's back, biting into his lower lip and rolling his hips up into Sam's stomach even though it made his stitches burn. The singer fumbled for a moment at Gabriel's motion, then he eased the door to his bedroom back open with a heel and hefted the assassin to the bed.

 

Gabriel bounced slightly when Sam dropped him none-to-gently to the mattress and he growled, catching the singer by the drawstring of his sleep pants and pulling him down, covering himself with Sam's body. The singer groaned when Gabriel dug his fingers into his shoulders, rewound his legs around his waist and thrust up, and the long fingers of one hand fumbled with the buttons of Gabriel's shirt. His progress of easing the garment from his shoulders was stopped by the thick leather straps of Gabriel's holster.

 

Sam stopped. He stared. Only for a moment, his eyes greedy, then bent and raked his teeth over the shell of Gabriel's ear. He pushed the light fabric aside and pressed hot, wet kisses down the column of Gabriel's throat to the muscled flesh above one nipple, letting his face rub against the leather while he met the assassin's eyes.

 

Gabriel was captivated, soaking up the sensation of Sam's hands on his hips, Sam's teeth biting into his skin, and Sam's erection pressed against his thigh. Then, Sam stopped. He was staring, his face a picture of smug lust. The assassin's hands shot up and scrabbled to undo the fastenings of his holster until one large hand stayed his.

 

"Leave it," Sam said, voice rough with undisguised hunger.

 

Gabriel smiled wickedly and felt himself grow harder at the look. "Could it be Sammy has a kink?" he teased in a breathless voice.

 

Sam let his lip curl up over his teeth in a ferocious grin. "It's _Sam_ ," he said, punctuating his point with a hard roll of his hips.

 

The assassin only let his smile widen. "I'm not hearing a denial," he said, pressing one hand to Sam's collarbone and bracing his feet on the bed. Sam only huffed and, with a quick, practiced motion, Gabriel jabbed his arm into the crook of the singer's elbow, pushing up as he fell. After a tangle of limbs, he sat victoriously astride Sam's hips. His shirt fell forward, shadowing the black stitches on his side, and he drew his hands worshipfully down Sam's unblemished chest.

 

Sam's eyes were almost black, color swallowed by the dark depths of his pupils, but he let an eager laugh slip through. He paused, then let a hand trace the long, thin scar down Gabriel's chest and asked in a hoarse voice, "How?"

 

Gabriel moved back, kneeling atop Sam's shins and yanking the singer's pants down roughly. "Terrorists in Tripoli, 1949."

 

Sam's skin pebbled as Gabriel tossed his pants to the floor and he sprang forward, almost frantically unbuckling Gabriel's belt. Long fingers slipped past the waistband to drag a pull sinfully slow down Gabriel's cock. The assassin let slip a noise that he would be sure to later deny and shimmied the rough fabric down as far as his bent knees. When it wouldn't go any further, he sighed in frustration and leapt from the bed, shoving his pants to the ground. He pushed up the sleeves of his shirt before he was back atop Sam, this time skin to skin.

 

The singer gasped low and stroked the deep, pink web of scar tissue on Gabriel's thigh as he had in the safety of his white house, then touched a jagged gash on Gabriel's hip. But this time, he wasn't afraid to ask. "This one?"

 

"Hah, f--" Gabriel panted as Sam's hand wrapped around both their cocks and pulled unsteadily. "Foiled the assassination of the UN ambassador, 1954."

 

The muscles of Sam's neck stood out in tantalizing definition as he reached his free hand for the scar on the back of Gabriel's calf. The assassin licked into the hollow of Sam's throat to the hot, shadowed underside of his jaw, feeling the next question reverberate in his teeth.

 

"This?" the singer stuttered, long fingers fumbling around their cocks as Gabriel thrust into his hand.

 

"Nicked by a harpoon gun," he replied, "s--setting a bomb underneath Gaddafi's lieutenant's yacht, 1956."

 

Sam let his head fall back, running his hands up Gabriel's back, feeling the raised flesh and pockmarks there, as the assassin thrust shallowly against him and protested the loss of Sam's hand with unintelligible noises. "This?" Sam gasped.

 

"Frag grenade, 1945."

 

"And you're still here," Sam breathed. "Still alive."

 

"I'm still here," Gabriel echoed, sitting up and allowing himself one tender touch to Sam's jaw, "with all the important bits."

 

Sam's hands dropped possessively to his ass and he gasped when he dug into his flesh. One long, questing finger dipped low and, in a wrecked voice, the singer asked, "Can I?"

 

Gabriel's sinful smile returned and he caught Sam by the wrists. Holding the singer's hands away from his body, he said, "If you've got a little liquid help around here."

 

Sam scrambled up and out from under Gabriel. After a second or two of digging, he pulled a small bottle out of the bag at the foot of his bed. Gabriel laid back into the pillows, adjusted his holster, and watched as Sam sauntered back around the bed. He had worried that the interruption would make the singer shy, but he couldn't have been more wrong. Gabriel licked his lips as he watched Sam's thighs tense and ease, hips swaying just slightly, and his mouth very nearly watered watching Sam's cock bob with his sure step.

 

Sam let a lascivious grin dimple his cheeks and he set the bottle on the bedside table.

 

"Christ, kiddo, you're quite an exhibitionist, ain't ya?"

 

Sam shrugged one broad shoulder and settled back on the bed between Gabriel's knees with a content sigh. He bent, his hair falling forward to shade his face just slightly, and pressed a kiss to the inside of Gabriel's thigh. The assassin gasped when Sam inched higher, strands of his hair teasing and tickling. "Maybe I am," he said, ghosting his lips over the tip of the assassin's cock.

 

"Then you're shapin' up to be a lot of things I didn't expect," Gabriel groaned.

 

Sam hummed and eased Gabriel's cock into his mouth. The shorter man gasped at the wet, velvet heat as Sam dragged his tongue up the length of him. Christ but singin' wasn't the only good thing that man could do with his mouth. Sam's tongue circled the tip of his cock almost languorously as his hand worked in counterpoint, dragging another moan from deep in Gabriel's throat. One long arm grabbed the bottle from the table, a click, then one finger was pressing insistently against him. Gabriel shuddered at the chill and Sam hummed around his cock in apology. The vibrations and the gently circling of Sam's finger against him pushed him perilously close to the edge, and Gabriel gasped in protest. The assassin let his head fall back. He fisted a hand in Sam's hair, just firmly enough to pull him up.

 

"None of that. Won't get to the good stuff if you keep on carryin' on like that."

 

Sam braced one hand by Gabriel's head, rolling involuntarily against the assassin's as Gabriel licked into his mouth, tongue thrusting in an indecent pantomime of Sam's rocking hips. He hummed wantonly when he tasted himself, just faintly, on Sam's tongue and the singer broke away, moving slowly lower again.

 

"You gotta give me a little credit," Sam mumbled against the skin of Gabriel's throat, "I can be a lot of things you don't expect."

 

A quiet groan slipped from his throat when Sam's finger pushed past the ring of muscles into him, and he could only nod in agreement. The singer thrust his finger shallowly, just enough to tease, and mouthed against Gabriel's soft stomach, trailing gentle kisses along the tender seams in his side.

 

"What," Gabriel gasped when Sam added a second finger and scissored inside him, "else ahh--are you going to be?"

 

"Well." Sam groaned as Gabriel pulled him back up and sucked a dark mark into the meat of his shoulder, his tongue a hot flash that followed, too quick to soothe but slow enough to torture. "I’m a Texas guy. Ha--ahnd the good and bad of that is--" He gasped, Gabriel's hand squeezing lightly around his cock, and added another finger to the assassin's entrance. "--oh GOD, I’m always, first and foremost, _loyal_."

 

Gabriel let out a throaty laugh. "Shit, I coulda guessed that," he said with a huff.

 

Smirking, Sam bit the assassin's bottom lip as punishment, catching the tender flesh hard between his teeth before soothing it with a slow pass of his tongue. Gabriel retaliated in lustful glee, tightening his grip on Sam and stroking faster, twisting his hand on the upstroke so that Sam was left stuttering for breath. The taller man groaned loudly and let his head fall against Gabriel's collarbone. He gasped and whined and swore as Gabriel dragged him the edge and back over and over with sure, deadly hands.

 

"Are you ready?" Sam asked, begged, after Gabriel squeezed practiced fingers around the base of his cock, denying his release for the second time. "Please--"

 

Gabriel let Sam's flushed, dripping cock bob free and he braced his hands above his head on the headboard, splaying out in a long line for Sam's eyes to consume. "Ready if you are, sugar."

 

The singer managed to take a moment to look Gabriel over, his gaze intensely focused, eyes alighting on his scars, his gun. He fumbled for a moment, lube lost in the blankets, before he squeezed some of the cool liquid into one large hand and slicked himself up with a shiver. Gabriel wriggled his hips and braced his knees on Sam's sides then, as Sam lined himself up, he shoved down without warning.

 

" _Oh_ , _fuck,_ " Sam choked.

 

The assassin gasped at the slight burn, the full feeling, but the look on his face was worth it and Sam's large fingers had stretched him just enough. Gabriel could feel every inch of the stretch and the heat and weight of Sam's cock inside him. The feeling made the edges of his vision blur with pleasure but he could still see Sam--wrecked, shoulders trembling and limbs shaking, managing to keep a tenuous hold on his composure. Gabriel felt a thrill of victory and not a little bit of pride. He lifted his hips and wrapped his legs around Sam's back, so the singer was propped up on his knees, both hands on the underside of Gabriel's thighs.

 

"That's the idea, generally," Gabriel murmured, rolling his hips in sinuous display.

 

Sam floundered. He dug his fingers into Gabriel's hips and stilled him, panting. "Ah! Damn you, Gabe, I'm not--hah, I won't last if you keep doin' that."

 

Gabriel let one hand trace the brown leather of his holster then the grip of his gun and watched Sam's eyes followed the movement. "What else are you?" he murmured.

 

He slipped two fingers into his mouth and sucked, watching Sam bite his lip and fumble for words.

 

"I'm--shit--"

 

"Sam."

 

The singer stared at his slick fingers as he brushed them down his chest, leaving a damp streak in their wake, and bit back a cry when Gabriel started thrusting into his own hand and back against Sam's hips.

 

" _Sam_!"

 

The assassin groaned purposefully loud and looked down at Sam to catch his reaction. Considering the man was staring at his mouth like it might be God, Gabriel felt pretty damn pleased with himself. Sam wanted a firm hand, a tease, wanted everything Gabriel could give him, and the assassin knew it.

 

"What are you?"

 

Sam's hips finally seemed to recognize what was going on and he started to thrust in earnest. This was going to be fast and it was going to be messy, and as Gabriel felt goosebumps break out over his skin as Sam panted and grunted against him. Oh, fuck, he'd almost forgot what that voice did to him--

 

"I'm, _oh god_ , I'm a self-taught singer."

 

Gabriel wrapped his hand around one of Sam's, slipping the man's fingers over the leather of his holster to watch him moan, egging him on and kissing each fingertip.

 

"And?"

 

"I'm a sucker for a man in uniform," Sam panted, snapping his hips hard enough into Gabriel's tight heat that the assassin had to brace himself against the headboard with both hands, panting.

 

"Ha!" Gabriel suppressed a laugh between breaths. "Wait 'til you see my dress greens."

 

" _Oh_ \--"

 

"One more," Gabriel demanded, meeting the singer thrust for thrust, stomach and legs aching with holding himself up against Sam. He couldn't bring himself to care, not with the look on that perfect face. Making Sam talk was worth the ache. "Tell me one more."

 

"Hah, _fuck_ , I'm a fucking _Catholic_."

 

This time, Gabriel did laugh and felt his rampant lust tinge with a deeper emotion when Sam laughed with him. Where he might have shut off the feeling in the past, he let it run unchecked through him, soaking into his very core with a silent repetition of _mine mine mine_.  He was certain, positive, that if someone could see inside him, all they'd see would be Sam's name, painted over his heart.  And damned if that didn't scare him.

 

Sam grinned at him, savage, and Gabriel bit back a moan that started to bubble from his throat when Sam braced one hand on his hip and wrapped the other around his cock. Then, he thought better of it and let the sound ripple through him, just to watch Sam's hips stutter and his hand move faster.

 

"Gabriel, fuck, I'm--I can't--"

 

Sam's hand dropped from his hip and clung to his thighs, eyes glinting with an animal light. The assassin wrapped his hand around Sam's again and stroked himself hard, clenching his ass down around Sam's cock with simmering pressure.

 

"C'mon, Sam. Come for me," he gasped.

 

Sam panted through a few more harried thrusts until he froze, body shuddering and shaking apart above Gabriel, teeth gritted and muscles taut. The assassin watched, feeling searing heat from Sam's skin soak into his, stoking the euphoria coiling in his gut before he tipped over the edge and moaned the singer's name long and low, hips ratcheting until at last he was spent.

 

A few moments more, then Sam slumped down against him, panting into his chest and mumbling nonsensical words into his skin. Gabriel chuckled breathlessly and unwrapped his aching legs from Sam's waist. With a mild groan, he flopped back onto the bed and Sam's cock slipped from him. The singer rolled off and away, but only a few inches, so his long limbs were still tangled with Gabriel's, keeping him in place. Gabriel ran gentle fingers through Sam's hair. He didn't want to move from this spot. Not for a thousand years, at least. Not when Sam was pressed so nicely against him. Sweat was cooling on their skin and a chill snuck up his spine when Sam pressed a gentle kiss to a dark mark on his throat. Eventually, he'd have to get back to his watch, and the thought nagged at him through the afterglow. He rolled out of the bed, unbuckling his holster and leaving it on the bedside table. With a gentle, lingering kiss, he snuck away and returned shortly thereafter with a damp towel.

 

As he wiped them clean, Gabriel could feel the tension creeping back under Sam's skin. His eyes were dark and contemplative, as if he were carefully considering his next words. That frightened Gabriel, just a little. Past lovers who'd looked the same never had anything good to say, and Gabriel was sure knew that look. He'd seen it in plenty of eyes, partners asking for something they thought he couldn't give. In this case, however, he pressed back into the pillows and waited. It felt right, finally, to wait. Whatever was coming next, he could handle. Maybe he could give in, this time. Sam settled gently beside him, crowding in a hot line against his stitches and easing the aches in his body. When he was curled back into Gabriel's shoulder, he sighed. Then, he asked, "Will you stay inside tonight?"

 

Gabriel frowned. That was definitely _not_ the question he had been expecting. Or anywhere even in the ballpark of questioning he'd expected.

 

"I mean," Sam said when he was silent, "you need the rest. And, it doesn't seem like anyone's comin' our way."

 

Gabriel hummed. The kid had a point. He was exhausted, his wounds smarting with exertion. One night wouldn't hurt. He'd be back up to snuff in the morning.

 

"Sure, sugar," he said with a content sigh, settling into the bed, "I'll stay in."

 

The tiny, happy smile on Sam's face made his heart swell, and for a while, they lay in bed. Just breathing, together. When Gabriel noticed Sam's eyes drooping shut, he tried to disentangle himself and leave Sam to sleep. What he expected least was for Sam to curl a large hand around his wrist and say in a small, sleepy voice, "Don't go."

 

Gabriel could swear that he was dreaming, seeing as how this wasn't something he ever presumed to have again. When Sam snugged himself back close and flung an arm over his chest as he might have before this whole fucking mess, when that warm, soaring feeling overtook him, he realized. He loved Sam, plain and simple. And with Sam back in his arms, maybe his demons would let him sleep tonight.


	15. Twilight Horrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> meh

Gabriel awoke with a start, not quite realizing where he was. It was early morning, still dark. Faint echoes of screams and gunshots faded out of his head as he lay there, but the sticky, smothering feeling remained. Unfortunately, his frantic panting and sudden movement also woke Sam. Gabriel sat up quickly and turned, putting his feet on the cool floor and his head in his hands. _Get it together, get it together_. He didn't realize he was shaking until Sam ran a hand up his back and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

 

"Shh," the singer hushed into the skin of his shoulder, "it's alright. I've got you."

 

Gabriel let out a shuddering breath and laced his fingers tight into Sam's, pressing a slight, desperate kiss to his knuckles. "I'm sorry," he said, voice shaking. "This hasn't happened in a long time."

 

Sam opened his mouth to say something but Gabriel lurched from the bed and stumbled down the hall to their shared bathroom, dry heaving his empty stomach into the toilet. He couldn't even remember what the nightmare had been about, goddamn it, but it still made his head spin and his stomach churn. He sat sprawled on the floor, panting a minute more before he pulled himself up and braced himself on the sink.

 

"Gabriel?" He heard a soft knock. "Are you alright? What's going on?"

 

The assassin sighed. "It's ok, sugar. Give me just a minute."

 

He straightened and fumbled for his toothbrush, cleaning the acrid taste from his mouth. Then, he opened the bathroom door. Sam was waiting just on the other side, his face a picture of worry. Gabriel's hands were still shaking when he reached for Sam, so he pulled back with a painful sort of smile and padded back to the bedrooms, retrieving his gun from Sam's and a kit from his. Sam followed him silently into the dining room and, when Gabriel sat down stiffly at the table and started dismantling his pistol, he sat opposite and just watched for a moment.

 

It was the only thing he knew to do, the only thing throughout the years that actually calmed him after such an episode. The quick, methodical motions of taking his treasured pistol apart and putting it back together, checking the action and greasing the slide, composed him. Even if he had to do it ten times, it always worked. He ignored Sam until the singer spoke, voice still rough with the morning.

  
"What's going on?" Sam asked, sliding his hand forward on the table in a comforting gesture. "Talk to me."

 

Gabriel laughed a little frantically. Sam's hand was inviting, his meaning well, but the assassin couldn't bring himself to stop breaking down his pistol lest the shaking begin again. "I'm not sure anything I tell you will really help," he said, pulling apart the pieces again and laying them out on the table. Not unlike what he'd done with himself, time and time again. Being pulled apart and put back together for someone to use. "This is pretty ingrained, Sammich. You think a man can live the life I've lived and not be a little fucked up?"

 

Sam's eyes saddened and he pushed himself up from the table. _Well shit_ , Gabriel thought. This is where he walks away, this is finally the straw that breaks the camel's back. The smell of gun oil filled his nose and he watched the pieces come back together instead of watching Sam retreat. He was infinitely surprised, however, when Sam's hands covered his gently from behind and pulled him to his feet. Gabriel stared at Sam hopelessly, gritting his teeth against threatening shakes.

 

"Come with me," Sam murmured.

 

With the singer still holding tight to his hand, Gabriel followed him to the bedroom, pistol abandoned. While his train of thought went one way, Sam's went another, and the singer handed him his clothes and retrieved his boots from the library as Gabriel eased into his gear. Then, he led Gabriel outside. The touch of fresh air on his face wiped away some of the latent anxiety wound tight in his stomach and he sighed in relief. Sam led him to the edge of the circle drive then just started walking. No prompting, no talking, just a comforting hand on his in the darkness before dawn. Following Sam's slow, sure steps, Gabriel felt his breathing ease and after a couple circles behind the house, he was calm again. Sam looked down at him, apprehensive.

 

"Do you feel comfortable talking?" Sam asked softly.

 

Gabriel took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Yeah," he replied, "I reckon I ought to have told someone. Hell, I probably should have a long time ago. But, it don't have to be you, sugar."

 

Sam leveled him with a slightly exasperated look.

 

"I just--I don't want to saddle you with all that," Gabriel muttered. "It's a lot of baggage I've been carryin' around a long time."

 

Sam hummed and looked straight ahead, quiet for a moment or two. Gabriel thought maybe he was letting it slide until Sam smiled gently.

 

"When I was a kid, at my uncle's house in Kansas, my brother and I used to play down at the river." Gabriel looked up at him, confusion patterning his face. "It was probably more'n a mile from our house, but we went almost every day during the summer, even when the water was low. One day, we went and jumped in with all our clothes on, it was so hot. Figured it would keep us cool on the walk home, you know?"

 

Sam kept walking, holding tight to Gabriel's hand, and even though the assassin wasn't sure what the story was for, Sam's deep voice was soothing.

 

"So, I'm swimming, divin', Dean's up the river a ways catching crawdads," he continued, "and I get stuck. I mean, really stuck. My shirt had gotten tangled in a branch, my back all scraped to hell, when I took a dive and tried swimming under a downed tree." Gabriel winced a bit at the thought, but didn't comment. "I'm just barely able to keep my head above water, trying to yell for Dean, and I'm terrified. I couldn't get out and I was sure I was going to die."

 

Gabriel leaned into Sam, comforted in the contact, and the singer paused in their walk. The look on his face said he still remembered the feeling of being stuck under the water, but he pressed a kiss to Gabriel's forehead despite it.

 

"I was stuck for a good, long while. I was so tired by the time Dean found me, I'd almost drowned two or three times. And you know the funny thing, I tried everything I knew to get out of there, but I couldn't do it without help. Dean saved my life, and he would several times after. For years after that, I wouldn't swim. For the first year, I wouldn't even dip my toes in. Then my brother eased me back into it. He was always there to talk me through when I was afraid, until I wasn't afraid of the water anymore." Sam paused with a meaningful look at Gabriel, then started walking again. "Now, whenever I'm afraid or uncertain, I go to the water. I look and I remember."

 

Gabriel was confused, not entirely sure what to make of this information. "So why are you tellin' me all this?" he asked.

 

Sam pursed his lips and shook his head, albeit with fond exasperation. "I'm telling you this because I think it's time you had someone help you back into the water."

 

Gabriel froze. Sam turned to face him and gently took his hands. This was something no one had ever offered him before. It was a viciously guarded secret, this debilitating disorder. Through the nightmares and the fear in his younger years, there hadn't been anyone. Even Lucifer, his nearest and dearest brother, didn't know what could be done for him, and if he were being honest, Lucifer hadn't really tried. It had become a fact that Gabriel had learned to live with and he'd learned to cope, over time. That didn't, however, ease his bewilderment at Sam's earnestness.

 

"Sam, I've carried on this long. I don't think this is anything that can be fixed," Gabriel said, a hopeful tremor in his voice betraying him.

 

Sam smiled and pressed Gabriel's knuckles to his lips. "Gabe, trust me."

 

Two soft utterances, nothing more, but the assassin felt buoyed up and lightened by them. "I trust you, sugar, I love you--"

 

For an instant, the assassin froze. He hadn't meant for that to come out. At all. What kind of cruel world would insist on letting his heart say what his head wasn't ready yet to share? Considering he'd just come to the conclusion that love, that long term was something he wanted with Sam, it was hardly fair to drop such a bomb.

 

But.

 

Sam was still smiling. He opened his mouth--

 

 

 

\--and his reply was drowned out by a sickening crunch of metal on metal and a deafening explosion. From instinct on a more primal level than any training could ever reach, Gabriel wrenched Sam down low to the ground and covered his head. Smoke and fire were billowing up in columns from the front of the house, from the gate, lighting the twilight horrifically red. Terror stole over Sam’s face for an instant as Gabriel stepped in front of him. His quick eyes calculated the distance to the house. Shit. Then the assassin gave Sam a firm shove in the opposite direction.

 

"Boathouse, Sam... Go, _Sam, **go**_!"

 

The singer started running. Gabriel reached for his gun from the holster on his shoulder, and was terrified to find it _missing_. _Oh, god_. It was still on the table, where he'd last left it. He checked to see if the singer still had his. There, tucked into the waistband of his pants. Gabriel sprinted forward and snatched Sam's pistol as three black cars careened around the flaming ruins of a fourth and the gate, around the back of the house right towards them.


	16. "I'll be right behind you."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel's worst fear becomes realized: the henchmen have found them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> violence-heavy chapter, fyi

Gabriel fired three tightly clustered shots at the driver’s side of the windshield of the first car and sent it tearing off to the side into the lake. Several henchmen bailed out before it struck the water and began shooting, peppering the air with sharp, staccato sounds. The ground around them started exploding with dirt and debris and Gabriel yanked Sam’s tall frame low.

 

“Run!” he commanded. “Stay low, and get inside!”

 

Sam hastened forward, throwing one look over his shoulder. Gabriel fired again, the bullet managing to pierce the windshield of the second car and it started weaving, but it didn’t stop. Gabriel froze for a split second.

 

It was the man. Long, Tall, and Creepy. Gabriel could barely see him sitting behind the wheel of the car speeding towards the embankment, but there was no way he could mistake him. Shit.

 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He shoved Sam inside the boathouse and locked the door.

 

“Attic! Attic!” Gabriel yelled, jerking Sam down the hallway and up a set of narrow stairs. He knew he’d stashed guns here. The higher vantage point would be better than being exposed on the ground level, and he had one more ace up his sleeve.

 

None of the windows in the boathouse were bulletproof, and Gabriel could hear the glass exploding and crashing to the hard tile floor as the men outside sprayed the house wildly with automatic fire. He yanked open a closet door in the hallway.  In the corner, he'd secreted a rifle, a pistol, two prototype flashbang grenades, and two IMI Uzis. Sam was halfway up the stairs when Gabriel heard the doors of the car slam shut and then men shout and scramble over the rocky shore to the boathouse.  Slinging the strapped guns over his shoulder, he stuffed the grenades into his pockets and followed after.

 

Gabriel locked the heavy door to the attic and shoved the singer up the rest of the stairs, then into the most protected corner of the tiny attic bedroom, tucking Sam's olive drab pistol into the waist of his pants. Scrambling for any furniture he could move, Gabriel hauled a chair down the stairs and braced it against the door.  Then, he pushed a bureau down the stairs and fixed so it leaned against the chair. He sprinted back up the stairs and threw open one of the windows on the opposite wall, tossing the rifle in Sam's direction.

 

“Lift up the panel!  Get the rope!” he shouted to Sam over the gunfire, pointing to the floor.

 

Sam fumbled with his gun and left it in the floor, feeling along the seams of the wood until his long, clever fingers pried the panel up. Underneath were accessories for the boat: skis, lifejackets, extra parts and a length of rope.  Sam drew out the rope as Gabriel scrambled and stashed the guns by the window. Down below, about twenty men in smart-looking clothing were circling the house, flashlights dancing, shooting at it from all angles. Damn, there was something unsettlingly familiar about that.

 

There was no way he could hit all of them from his vantage point. Gabriel grimaced and felt a familiar calm settle over him as he trained the sights of his pistol on one of the men. It was sickeningly unreserved, the rush of blood and the smell of fire and death. The edges of his vision blurred just slightly until he shook himself and took aim. His ears rang with the shot as the henchman screamed and fell, splattering gore over the dark wood of the boathouse wall. Another shot, another down. Then, he heard an unfamiliar sound that jarred him as he eyed his next target.

 

Sam had taken up post at the other window and was firing down on the men below. His aim wasn’t nearly as accurate or as deadly, but Gabriel saw one of the men writhing on the ground, clutching his shoulder.

 

“Sam, get back!” he shouted in a warning tone. The singer squeezed off another shot. A henchmen shouted and pawed at his neck, trying to staunch the sudden flow of blood. He fixed Gabriel with a look that said _I can do this_ before finding his next target. Gabriel felt the ghost of a smile steal over his face. Sam had his back. Despite the shit they were in now, Sam was with him.

 

The men below regrouped and pinpointed the windows Sam and Gabriel were shooting from, then the walls started splintering. Scrambling forward, Gabriel pushed Sam back into the corner and ducked, shielding Sam from the shrapnel until there was a lull in the shooting below. The assassin refocused in the window and took down another henchman with a well-placed shot. Five shots left in the pistol, four men dead, one wounded.

 

Four shots left.

 

Three.

 

He heard the door downstairs burst open and the henchmen started filing in.

 

“Fuck,” Gabriel swore. He tossed the pistol onto the floor and clambered for the Uzis, then to Sam. “Safety, semi, full auto,” he said, quickly pointing to the selector behind the trigger and propping Sam's rifle against the wall. “Keep it on semi-auto. You’ll fire three rounds at a time. Twenty-five rounds per magazine.”

 

Sam nodded and Gabriel motioned for him to follow. They each took up a side of the doorway. Waiting with bated breath, they listened as the henchmen filtered through the house and tossed it. China shattered on the hard tile floor, gunfire peppered the air until they found the right door. Muffled voices filtered up the stairwell, and Gabriel twisted around the corner. He fired three shots into the door and listened to the men shriek and scatter. At least one of them was hurt, judging by the frantic voices.

 

A pounding on the door began, and Gabriel fired again. Pause, frantic voices, then pounding. The door began to bow between the gunfire, and Gabriel exhausted a whole magazine, but the banging did not cease. Grimacing at Sam, Gabriel slung the Uzi over his shoulder. He yanked the younger man to his feet and to the back window of the room. He straightened the rope and secured it to the Garand in a V then tossed the end out the window.

 

“Down,” he commanded. “Climb down.”

 

Sam looked at him, eyes wide and wild. “Not without you,” he protested.

 

“I’ll be right behind you,” Gabriel assured him, setting the Garand perpendicular to the window on the sill, making a brace for the rope. He just hoped it would be strong enough to hold Sam.

 

The banging on the door increased and the wood groaned, splintering on its hinges, but the chair held it fast. Sam glanced nervously down the length of rope, then at Gabriel.

 

“You can do it, sweetheart,” the assassin said softly. Still, Sam looked apprehensive and Gabriel couldn’t bear it. He thrust the rope into Sam’s hands and grabbed the collar of his shirt, holding him low and close. “You get down there, and you run,” he demanded, looking up into Sam’s wide eyes. “You run like hell. Stay low, get to their car, then take their car and get out.”

 

“But you—You’re coming with me!”

 

Gabriel pressed his lips to Sam’s and squeezed him tight. The door below fractured with an explosive crack and the chair crumpled, the bureau fell back, bullets zinging up the stairs and burying themselves in the wood. The assassin turned, gun in hand.

 

“Gabriel!”

 

“Please!” he cried over his shoulder. “Go, Sam!”  


Wood began splintering from the floor ahead of him, spraying a fine dust of shredded pulp into the air. He stalked forward and fired precise, lethal shots down at the henchmen heading up the stairs. Two dead. Three.

 

Sam was scrambling down the side of the house, and Gabriel tucked himself behind the corner of the doorway while the henchmen fired back and tried for the stairs again.

 

He waited, breathing in and out as slowly as he could, until they were almost halfway up the stairs before he switched his gun to automatic and cut through the henchmen. Four, five, six down. The landing below had started to become slippery with blood, and the mobsters were sliding up where they hadn’t meant to. Gabriel pulled the pin from one flash-bang and lobbed it down the stairs. While the henchmen screamed, the Uzi fired in rapid succession at those exposed in the doorway. Seven, eight, nine down.

 

Ten.

 

_Click_.

 

Out of ammo. The assassin growled in frustration and scrambled forward for his pistol. Only five shots.

 

“Gabriel!”

 

The assassin stared out the window for a split second. Sam was outside, but he wasn’t running.

 

“Get outta here!” he bellowed before charging forward. With a quick pull and release, he lobbed the last flash grenade down into the pair at the bottom of the stairs, ducking behind the wall and covering his ears. The two remaining hitmen were screaming, holding their ears or rubbing their eyes and he sprang forward. He jumped, flying over the stairs and the fallen bureau.  Bowling them over with his sudden weight, he knocked an opening into the main floor of the house. He scrambled to disentangle himself from the pile of limbs at the bottom of the stairs, screaming and swearing when his stitches tore, and ran for the front door.

 

Yanking it open, he had enough time to see Sam’s silhouette climb into the remaining undamaged car before a bullet tore through his arm. He turned, then screamed when one hit just above his knee. He sank, emptying the rest of his magazine with his good hand.

 

Then another shot and, at last, he dropped his pistol and fell, rolling onto his back on the porch and panting. Blearily, he noticed that he wasn’t dead yet, even though the henchmen were gathered around, guns trained on him. Then, Long, Tall, and Creepy was standing over him. Gabriel panted and clutched at the wound above his knee, but he grinned triumphantly.

 

Sam was still safe.

 

The mobster’s face twisted into a nasty expression, then he lifted his foot. Gabriel felt enormous pain bloom on his temple, and the world went black.


	17. No Alternatives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> grinding grinding grinding

Sam watched in horror as the tall man shot Gabriel. He choked when he heard Gabriel scream, and shouted when the henchmen viciously kicked the soldier's prone form. He waited just a moment more, and that's when one of the men spotted him. Fumbling, Sam reached for the key and the car roared to life under his hands. He tore out of the Field House driveway. Bullets pinged off the side of the big black car as he skidded over the pavement and out the gate with a screech of rubber.

 

He looked in the rearview. No one was following and his thoughts raced. Was Gabriel dead? Was he just injured? Where were these men going to go? He had no more to go on than the name of the Agency’s cover, so what the hell was he going to do? He stopped and he made a split decision, pulling the car into a diner parking lot just where the long, winding drive let out. Then, he waited. There was no one he could call for help, but he could at least find out where they were going.

 

He had to get help, find Gabriel, alive.

 

Sam couldn’t bring himself to imagine the alternative.

 

Half an hour passed before an familiar black car with a shattered windshield pulled out of the drive. Sam squinted at them as they passed. Gabriel. The soldier was sitting in the backseat of the car, slumped between the two remaining henchmen. Sam felt his stomach flip; Gabriel was alive. Or, at least, he looked it. Why else would the mobsters be taking him? Sam’s throat clenched, and he realized _why_.

 

They wanted information, and the best way to get it was from a live body.

 

As nonchalantly as possible, he eased the car out into traffic and followed them at a distance. The black car turned south onto Lake Shore Drive, weaving easily in and out of the late afternoon traffic down the highway. For half an hour, the car ahead of him drove in twisting, convoluted patterns, following side streets with no particular rhyme or reason. Once or twice, Sam nearly lost them in the afternoon haze. Finally, the black car took an exit at 85th and the street dead-ended. Sam didn’t dare follow them down the rough, patchy drive. But, from what he could see, the street ended in a rundown industrial park: South Works on the North Slip. He eased the car into a u-turn, speeding back to the Field House. There was only one person that could help him right now.

 

  
||~~||

 

 

Sam did the first thing he could think of when he careened into the driveway of the Field House. He sprinted inside and fumbled for the first telephone he could find, giving the operator a familiar number. A couple rings and then a happy, saccharine voice picked up.

 

"Garth's Automotive."

 

"Garth! Garth, listen, it's Sam!" he panted, pacing where he stood. "Dean! I need to talk to Dean right now."

 

"Hold your horses there, Sam, where's the fire?" Garth drawled, and Sam could hear the smile in his voice. "Gimme just a second here. Ole Dean's buried shoulders deep in a Chevy, you know how he gets."

 

Sam waited frantically, listening to the bang and whir of mechanic equipment until his brother's gruff voice flooded his ears.

 

"What's shaking, Sammy?"

 

"Dean, I need your help!" Sam cried. "Do--d'you remember where the Field House is? The address I gave you? Dean, they took Gabe, we have to get him ba--"

 

"Sammy! Sam, sit tight," Dean cut in, "I'll be there as soon as I can. Don't be doin' anything stupid. Just _stay put_."

 

He didn't wait for a reply before Sam heard a click and a dial tone. He stood frozen for a moment, then did the only thing he could think of.

 

Sam frantically searched the house for the guns Gabriel had hidden. Right now, the only thing that Sam _could_ do was round up all the guns he could find. A crazed, half-laid plan was forming in his mind, but he couldn’t do it alone.

 

Fourteen. Gabriel had had fourteen guns. Four had been in the boathouse, Sam himself had one, and he’d found at least five more in the south half of the house around the bedrooms. He was searching the rest of the house when he heard the front door bang open.

 

“SAM!”

 

The singer dropped everything and scrambled down the hall. His brother was standing in the doorway, pistol drawn, looking thunderstruck. Sam rushed toward him, grabbing Dean’s arms and gripping frantically to the fabric of his jacket.

 

“Dean! Dean, they took him!” Sam cried. “We have to go after him!”

 

“Sam—”

 

“We have to get him back,” the singer choked, tears threatening behind his eyes.

 

Dean took firm hold of his brother’s wrists and shook him. “Cool it, man. I get it, shit went down. But you won’t be able to help anybody if you can’t get it together. Focus.”

 

Sam took two deep breaths and nodded, mollified. Dean was right.

 

“What’s goin on?” Dean asked. “Who took him?”

 

Sam released hold on Dean’s jacket and took another breath. “Cohen. Cohen’s men. They shot him. But, they loaded him up and I reckon that if they’re takin’ the body, he’s gotta be alive. I know where they are.”

 

The frown on Dean’s face deepened as Sam talked, and he tucked his gun back into the back of his pants. “Sam, no,” he said slowly. “I know what you’re thinkin’. But, what exactly do you think we can do, huh? We’re in no way made for this sort of thing.”

 

Sam’s lip twisted. “Dean, we have to get him back. I found ten of the guns he brought. We find four more and we’ve got ourselves an arsenal to take in there. We might just even be able to sneak in, no getting involved at all.”

 

His brother sighed and shook his head. “And what extra ammo do we have? How do we get him out, if they shot him up? We need help, Sam. Didn’t he tell you where to go or who to call if something like this happened?”

 

The singer rubbed his eyes and blew out a breath. “He—he said ‘Morningstar.’ He works for Morningstar, remember?” Realization dawned on Dean’s face and Sam frowned. “What?”

 

“Morningstar? As in the investment company?” Dean asked. When Sam nodded, he cursed. “C’mon. I know where it is.”

 

  
||~~||

 

  
Sam loaded the guns into the trunk of Dean's car and sank into the passenger seat, limbs shaking. What had he been thinking? His brother was right: There was no way the two of them could possibly get into then out of South Works _without_ an injured assassin, much less with. He would’ve gotten them all killed. He cradled his face in trembling hands and took a slow, calming breath. He could only hope that whoever was at Morningstar would believe them.

 

Dean zipped through traffic up in the bright morning light to Washington Street and parked just across the way, a large, imposing building towering overhead. Brash red letters read ‘Morningstar, INC.’ but nothing about the building even remotely suggested an organized, government death squad.

 

“What if they don’t believe us?” Sam asked, voice tight.

 

“We’ll make ‘em,” Dean replied.

 

The pair stalked to the door and Dean pulled the handle. Locked. Sam punched the intercom box and after a moment or two, a nasal feminine voice crackled through the speaker.

 

“Do you have an appointment?”

 

“No, but—” he started.

 

“I’m sorry, sir, no one is allowed on the floor without a scheduled consultation.”

 

Sam glanced at Dean. “We need to speak to the Director,” he said, confidently as he could. “We have serious information about an Agency employee.”

 

The silence ringing from the intercom was so long, Sam began to wonder if he’d even been heard. Then, the mirrored door popped open with a click, and a man with hard blue eyes and a pleasant smile said, “Come in, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see any typos? let me know! i fuck something up? let me knooooow pls


	18. Compromised

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter is kind of short and angsty. getting back into some action soon tho! hang in there!

The upper floor of Morningstar looked like what Sam thought must be a generic investment agency room. Desks were lined in neat rows, men in ties and shirtsleeves chattering on phones to resources all over the country. Their guide, well-dressed even for an investment agent, led them off the floor and to an elevator at the end of the hall. He fished a key out of his pocket and pressed the down arrow. When the doors whispered open, he firmly pushed Sam and Dean to the back and opened a panel on the elevator with the key.

 

“You must realize,” he said in an accented voice, punching in a code on the keypad the key revealed, “that you may speak of this to no one or some very drastic measures will make their way to you.”

 

“We’re not looking to make trouble,” Sam replied, “we just need help.”

 

The man raised an elegant eyebrow at Sam over his shoulder as the elevator started descending.

 

“Are you the Director?” Dean asked.

 

The man’s face split into a silly grin and he nearly snorted with laughter. “No, god no. I couldn’t do that job. Too many rules.” Sam and Dean exchanged an uncomfortable look, and he shook his head. “You can call me Balthazar.”

 

“Do you,” Sam hesitated. “Do you know Gabriel?”

 

Balthazar fixed Sam with an exasperated look, as if he were incredibly dense for asking such a thing. “Possibly,” he said, “but secrecy is top priority here. We aren’t supposed to know each other’s real names.”

 

“Why?” Dean asked, wrinkling his nose in confusion.

 

The agent’s eyes turned serious and in a low voice, he replied, “So if we’re ever caught and all that expensive training is broken, we can’t sell the others out to save ourselves.”

 

The silence that followed was so thick, Sam thought he would choke. The realization, the gravity of Gabriel’s situation struck him suddenly as the elevator doors slid open and the trio walked down a quiet hallway filled with dozens of doors. The man who had cradled him so gently, who had whispered sweet words and pressed tender kisses into his skin, was probably locked in a dark, empty room somewhere. Possibly bleeding out— _again_ —at this very moment. He was trained to withstand torture, and to kill people, and he liked three scoops of sugar in his coffee. Sam suppressed a tremor of dread. They were hurting him. The assassin, no, the soldier, the man that he—

 

“Here we are,” Balthazar said, and Sam snapped from his train of thought. The agent rapped twice on a plain brown door and waited. The door swung inward. “Hello, Director,” he said, pasting a pleasant smile on his face, “delivery.”

 

A rather severe-looking woman in a grey pantsuit frowned at him, then gestured for them to come inside. Balthazar nodded, then began sauntering back down the hallway as the brothers stepped into the office. Filing cabinets lined the back of the room, which was dominated by a large, wooden desk, and she sat easily in a leather chair.

 

“Sit,” she said in a clipped tone.

 

Sam frowned and took the only available seat, but sat only at the edge, more wary of this woman than he’d been of any Agency employee he’d met so far. Dean bristled at his side and remained standing just behind him, arms crossed. “Ma’am—”

 

“Mr. Winchester, perhaps you can tell me why our Field House is in shambles and why the locator on one of my agents has stopped working.”

 

Sam’s lips thinned. “That’s what we’ve come to you about,” he said. “Gabriel’s been taken by Cohen’s men.”

 

The Director did not seem at all phased by his revelation. In fact, if anything, a faint upturn of her mouth was the only movement she revealed. “Mr. Novak is a trained associate of Morningstar. I’m sure he will be able to get out of whatever predicament he is in.”

 

“He was shot, multiple times!” Sam exclaimed, placing a hand on the Director’s desk as he inched closer, as though proximity would sway her. “He’s been kidnapped, and you just want to let him ‘get out of it’?”

 

The Director pursed her lips and glared at Sam’s hand.

 

“He was shot, at least twice,” he repeated, voice tight. “I saw them, I know where they took him.”

 

“Mr. Winchester,” she said, “I can’t do anything. If we move on Cohen’s men, all that we have worked to do to stop him will be compromised. He’ll know that he and his men are being watched, and we’ll lose ground in this fight. I can’t afford to take that risk.”

 

Sam sat back, struck speechless, then sprang to his feet. “This—this is a person we’re talking about. A human being, your employee, taken hostage and you’re just gonna let him burn?”

 

The Director’s face hardened and she rose from her chair. She walked calmly around the table, stepping into Sam’s space. Dean tensed beside him, but didn’t move when she leaned close and whispered pleasantly,

 

“I don’t know what you think my agent is to you, but make no mistake about this: I do not enjoy _wasting_ my men when they could have easily been saved if they’d followed regulation. Instead, my agent broke code and went to you, someone who couldn’t help him in the least, and now he’s paying for it. I cannot take action, because he was trying to protect _you_ from his mistake. I can guarantee you that he wouldn’t have erred had he not been so…emotionally compromised. So, that’s it. We lose, and so does he.”

 

Sam felt his heart shatter.  The tone of her voice belied the devastating truth: This was…his fault. He stared dumbly at the Director, frozen under her harsh glare. “Now,” she said firmly, “get out of my office.”

 

He didn’t move. He couldn’t. At least, not until Dean steered him into the hall and started marching him to the elevator.

 

 

 

  
Everything was blurry, like he was underwater. Dean was saying something as the elevator doors slid open, but he didn’t register what it was. The only thought filling his head was that he'd never see Gabriel again. The elevator jerked upward and Sam stared numbly at the seam in the floor. The Director was right. If Gabriel hadn't been trying to keep him safe, if he hadn't gotten involved, he'd be alright. Guilt sat heavy in Sam's stomach and felt like he might be sick. The elevator doors opened with a whisper and suddenly the view was wide and very dark.


	19. Bait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh

 

Sam glanced up just in time to see two men in black suits make a grab for his brother. Sam jabbed the emergency close button and scrambled back, yanking Dean away from the door, but one of the suit's grabbed hold of his jacket with bulldog tenacity while the other jammed the door.

 

"Get off me! Get--" The suit yanked, cutting him off and sending Dean sprawling into the narrow corridor. He managed to get himself upright and face off against the goons. The pair started stalking forward.

 

"Hey!"

 

The taller of the pair turned back to the elevator. Dean shouted and swung at one while the other soundlessly grasped at Sam. Despite several well-placed punches, Suit B fought Dean into a headlock and Suit A decided maybe wrestling could be a more effective tactic when he couldn't wrangle Sam out of the elevator. He lowered himself and charged forward, slipping through the jammed door at speed. With what little room he had, Sam dodged to the side and grabbed the back of Suit's jacket collar. As Suit A went forward, Sam pulled back, effectively hamstringing him and binding his arms. With one swift shove, he bashed the suit's head into the metal of the elevator then as he reeled back, stunned, Sam kneed him in the jaw and sent him sprawling to the floor.

 

Suit B was still struggling to hold Dean when suddenly the view was very striped and very British. Balthazar appeared behind them and wrenched the suit back. A quick motion, a stifled shout, and Suit B was down for the count. With a soft snort, he took Sam's arm in a tight grasp. He yanked him from the elevator and quelled Dean's protestations with a few choice words as he steered Sam around a corner and down a corridor past the businessmen in their shirtsleeves.

 

"Wait! Hang on, what--" Sam tried to say.

 

"Shut it," Balthazar hissed as he shoved Sam and Dean into a bunker-like room. For a second, all Sam could process was the stark white of the room. Then, he saw an eerie, familiar face.

 

"Hello, boys."

 

Lucifer, Gabriel's brother, was seated at a long table with two women, one with dark skin and darker eyes, the other with red hair and a razor-sharp smile.

 

"Azrael," Balthazar murmured with a quick incline of his head, "Kali, Abaddon."

 

Sam looked between the four mercenaries before him. Honestly, he had to stop and wonder just what the hell they were all doing sitting, lounging. He had the distinct feeling of being a mouse among cats, ripe for the catching.

 

"Ok, what the fuck is going on?" Dean spat, rubbing his neck. "Can someone tell me why we were just attacked comin' outta the elevator?"

 

Balthazar sighed and gave him a powerful eyeroll. "That's what we've been trying to figure out, you nitwit."

 

"Hey--"

 

"Do they work for you?" Sam interrupted.

 

Balthazar glanced at Lucifer and, when he nodded, Balthazar said, "Yes. But why they would attack you, we've no idea."

 

"Where's my brother, Samuel?" Lucifer--Azrael--interjected.

 

Sam shuddered. The tone of Lucifer's question suggested that he didn't care a whit about his brother's whereabouts. There was something in his eyes though, glittering hard and icy blue, that said if Sam didn't spill, he was risking losing some appendages. Sam's clenched his jaw. Maybe he cared more than Sam thought...

 

"South Works," he said with a defiant jut of his chin.

 

A pause. Lucifer's frown matched those around him. Sam glanced at Dean.

 

"Does that mean something to you?" he asked them.

 

Lucifer locked eyes with Balthazar again and nodded minutely.

 

"South Works is one of ours. A holding facility under the guise of a steel mill," Balthazar explained. "If Loki has been captured by Cohen as you say, it begs the question why they went there and how they got in."

 

Sam stiffened and glared at the assassins before him. "How did you know I said Cohen's men?"

 

The red-haired woman--Abaddon--scoffed and stretched from her seat. Lucifer's icy smile cut into Sam, right to his insides, and made him squirm. The agent didn't reveal anything, not with words anyway but Sam's sense of unease grew under that stare. Something was wrong, and all the agent knew it.

 

"Loki isn't the first agent to go missing in the field," Abaddon said gamely, propping her booted feet on the table. "We think someone's workin' the ring from the inside. Six agents gone in as many months."

 

"How do you know?" Dean asked.

 

"Abaddon is our top intelligence agent," Lucifer said. "Very good. Very...persuasive."

 

Sam shuddered inwardly at the implication of Azrael's words and Abaddon's crazed, calculating smile. "So why won't the Director do anything?" he asked.

 

"We don't know," Balthazar supplied. "But all accounts, we're to retrieve agents whenever possible. We don't know why she's been abandoning them."

 

"We've been monitoring the higher-ups though," Abaddon cut in. "That's how we know what you know. Listening in."

 

The assassins paused, seemingly unwilling to share more. Sam processed everything, let it settle, and he didn't like the conclusion he drew.

 

"So?" he asked, voice rough. "What do we do now?"

 

"We," Lucifer said in a cheerful voice, "are going to get my brother. And you two are going to stay here."

 

Immediately, Sam reared back and shook his head. "No! No way! I'm coming with you."

 

Azrael snorted. "This ain't natives and cowboys, Sammy."

 

"No doubt," Sam replied with a dark curl to his lip. "But I can give you an advantage."

 

This time, Kali spoke, cutting in before the others, asking, "What advantage?"

 

"They want me, too," he said, leveling her with a firm gaze. "I can be bait."

 

"Hey now, hold on! Sammy!" Dean protested. "This wasn't exactly the plan!"

 

Sam spun and glared at his brother. "You got a better idea, Dean?"

 

Dean's jaw worked but he couldn't offer a rebuttal. Lucifer and Abaddon whispered together and Balthazar said faintly, "You realize this is almost suicide, don't you?"

 

Everyone in the room exploded into noise. Dean began arguing with Sam and Abaddon as Balthazar listed off all the ways that wouldn't work to anyone listening--

which was no one--while Lucifer encouraged the chaos.

 

Except Kali, who sat quiet for a moment. "Maybe not," she murmured. The hubbub subsided and Lucifer cocked an eyebrow at her.

 

"Kwolek in Chemical has been working with a new polymer. She says its still in the early stages, but there's a chance it could work."

 

"C'mon Kali, out with it," Lucifer drawled.

 

"We've formed a few prototype vests," she replied with a dagger look. "Bulletproof, at least against smaller calibers. We fit you with one, send you in--"

 

"Now wait!" Dean roared. "How do we know you sonsabitches won't leave him in there?"

 

"'Cause my idiot brother would be right back in there after him," Lucifer sighed.

 

Sam's stomach clenched and Abaddon snorted but when silence descended on the room, Lucifer cracked his back and shook himself like a cat fluffing its fur. "Let's go then," he said with a groan as his neck popped loudly, "before my baby brother expires."

 

||~~||

 

Sam followed the group down into the bowels of Morningstar. Balthazar brought up the rear as Abaddon took point, knife drawn and wicked-looking. No one said a word and Sam felt more unnerved with every step. Shouldn't they have passed someone by now? Where were they others? Whatever route Abaddon led them down didn't seem to be well used. At last, the descending stairs and empty corridors let out into a massive garage. Sam marveled at the enormity of it as Kali shuffled him past armored vehicles and luxury cars.

 

At the far end of the garage was a door and Agent Azrael opened it to reveal a collection of tables, filing cabinets, and maps. Lucifer hummed to himself and fished a set of keys out of his pocket. He nodded to Abaddon and Kali, who departed swiftly without a word, while he unlocked a filing cabinet about midway down the row. Balthazar stood stony at the door as Lucifer began riffling through the drawers.

 

Dean side-eyed Lucifer before he pulled Sam to the opposite side of the room. "Man, what're you thinkin'?" he hissed in the quiet.

 

Sam glanced at him and only shrugged. "I'm doin' what I have to, Dean."

 

His brother scoffed and shook his head. "Sam, this isn't your fight. They know where Gabriel is, so why don't you just let them go?"

 

"I just--" Sam faltered. "He'd do the same for me, Dean. I can't just let him go."

 

Dean looked as if he were ready to keep arguing, but Lucifer cried, "Aha!" and blew imaginary dust from a roll of papers before spreading them over a table. As he glanced over it, Sam turned away from Dean and crossed back to the table, chancing a peek. The bottom was labeled 'South Works' in large letters and the rest of the space was filled with measurements and blown up diagrams. Lucifer shuffled through the papers before pulling one to the front of the stack.

 

It was a diagram, a schematic for the entirety of South Works and its buildings. As Sam looked the page over, Abaddon and Kali came trundling back in, laden with rucksacks much like Gabriel's.

 

"Why don't you watch the door, buddy boy?" Lucifer said to Dean. "Adults need to talk."

 

Dean folded his arms and scoffed but moved to take Balthazar's place. The agent stood next to Azrael and looked the schematic over with a critical eye.

 

"What do you think?" Lucifer murmured.

 

Sam's brow creased in surprise. It didn't seem in the brother's character to cede power but apparently none of the others thought it was odd.

 

"Most likely, he's being held in the southwest building, the containment block. There's only three ways in and none of them will be easy," Balthazar intoned.

 

Lucifer hummed and tapped the top of the page. "And if he's not in Containment?"

 

"Southeast building."

 

Lucifer nodded sagely as Kali pulled in a sharp breath.

 

"What's the southeast building?" Sam asked apprehensively.

 

"Persuasion," Kali said grimly.

 

The word, though a perfectly normal one, sent shivers down Sam's spine. He swallowed hard when Dean asked the question he could not.

 

"What's 'Persuasion'?"

 

"Advanced intelligence gathering," Abaddon supplied.

 

"Torture," Sam clarified, swallowing hard around the thought.

 

"They don't call 'em Confidantes for nothin'," Lucifer said with a smirk. "I'd bet Abaddon here has some of the best secrets in the world tucked into that noggin of hers." Sam felt sick to his stomach but Abaddon flowered under the praise. “So, what’s our best option?” Lucifer continued.

 

Balthazar pushed out a heavy breath and said, “Sam’s suggestion of live bait has merit, but there’s no way of knowing which building to send him into. And, if they do capture him, whose to say that they’ll take him to where Gabriel is?”

 

The group was silent and Balthazar’s words sat heavy in the air. Sam pondered the point. What would guarantee he’d be taken to Gabriel? What would—

 

 _Oh_.  


“Leverage,” he breathed. “If they have me, I can give them leverage.”


	20. Grave Accusations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Find the rat...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized as I went to post this chapter that I had misnamed the last one. So, the chapter 19 has been changed to Bait and this one will be called Grave Accusations. I think it'll make more sense here.

Sam’s epiphany seemed to strike the group to stone. Dean stared hard at Sam over the table but his brother’s expression solidify the truth of it. He’d been with Gabriel for long enough to know something about nothing. Even if they couldn’t get answers from him, if whoever had captured him twisted right, Gabriel would tell them anything to spare him. When Lucifer didn’t disagree, Sam knew in his gut he was right.

 

“But how would they know that?” Kali said with a frown. “Gabriel was hiding with you before he took the job in Texas. Even we didn’t know where he was for the first week.”

 

Sam’s mouth turned down and Lucifer cut in. “They wouldn’t have to know.”

 

Abaddon and Balthazar squinted at his for a moment before realization settled in. Kali nodded sagely and Sam made the leap just as Dean shook his head and asked, “What?”

 

“We send him in,” Lucifer elaborated slowly, as if the older Winchester might not understand English, “he gets caught. All he has to do it tell them who he’s there for and they’ll come to the conclusion on their own.”

 

Balthazar nodded but Abaddon was still frowning. “There was nothing on the Network,” she declared. "Nothing about Cohen or his men moving, I'm sure of it."

 

“So, someone fed him false information,” Kali suggested. “Made him think he’d need to go into hiding. If he’s away from Morningstar, he doesn’t have access to everything and the safest option then becomes the most exploited weakness.”

 

“But who in the Network would have fed him false info?” Balthazar asked. “It’s a closed network, a randomized operator.”

 

“If all he requested was an update after the initial report, the operators would have only informed him there was no new information,” Abaddon corrected.

 

“But we’re back to the same old question,” Lucifer said in a sing-song voice. “Who’s the rat?”

 

Everyone was silent. Sam wracked his brain for anything that Gabriel might have said. Any clue, any hint of who the betrayer might be. Staring hard at the schematic, he thought over everything that Gabriel had told him…and came up empty. No one broke the silence until Dean cleared his throat and said, “The Director could have given it to him.”

 

The Morningstar agents turned and stared. Even Sam felt perplexed.

 

“Well,” Dean mumbled, “that dame’s the only one we know that he talked to directly. Ga—Loki even told us that he had orders straight from the Director to take you to the Field House, remember, Sam?”

 

Realization dawned on Sam's face. Gabriel had, in fact, mentioned the Director in conjunction with his move to the Field House, and no one else. Though he knew and obviously worked with the rest of these government killers, he had only mentioned his brother by name. It wasn't likely that Lucifer had anything to do with his disappearance, not if the murderous look on his face was anything to go by.

 

"That's a grave accusation, Dean Winchester," Kali said dangerously.

 

"But it's the only one that makes sense," Sam justified. "Aside from Azrael and the Director, Loki never mentioned anyone else."

 

Lucifer pursed his lips. The silly expressions haunting his features had all drained away, leaving only a glacial exterior and sanguinary intent.

 

"If anyone could feed false information and be believed, it would be she," Agent Azrael said tightly. "So, we move."

 

The agents gathered closely and Azrael pointed to the schematic.

 

"Here, at the front gate, is the most obvious place for Sam to be. Balthazar, take the skiff and come in from the slip. The southwest building can be directly accessed from there. There should be enough cover for you. Abaddon, you’re with me on the north side. Kali, I want you on observ—“

 

“Wait a minute, where am I going?” Dean demanded. “You can’t send Sam in there without me.”

 

“Dean—" Sam started.

 

Lucifer scowled nastily at the older brother. “Deano, this isn’t a quail shoot. You can’t spray and pray, as I’m sure your strategy would suggest.”

 

Dean reared back in offense. “I can go in the front, with Sam!” he protested.

 

“No,” Lucifer said, “because then we’d have to rescue three idiots instead of two.”

 

“Let me go with one of the groups. I’m a good shot.”

 

“This is a rescue operation,” Kali replied, “which means you need to be more than just a good shot.”

 

Sam glanced at Dean. No one seemed willing to side with him and his brother looked downright thunderous. As much as he wanted Dean to stay behind and out of harm’s way, Sam realized what that his brother might do, even if the assassin squad didn't realize it yet. They were together through everything, thick and thin, and Dean wasn’t about to let this die easy. He’d come separately if the they wouldn’t include him in the operation, and he'd blow things to shit if he wasn't careful. Sam tilted his head at Lucifer, asking permission, and at the leader’s nod, he said, “What you could do is be our driver.”

 

Lucifer quirked an eyebrow but didn’t disagree. Dean pursed his lips sullenly. Sam felt afraid that he would argue, that he wouldn't take the one opening the agents could afford him. Dean snorted but he acquiesced at last with a hard jerk of his head.

 

"Well, I'm glad that's all settled," Lucifer said with a sour expression. "Deano, all you have to do is drive Sam here to the front door then pull around the corner and wait. Think you can handle that?"

 

Dean rolled his eyes. Before he could get a word out, Lucifer said, "Do you want to get out of this alive?" Dean sat silent. "This is no joke. Not anymore. If this info is right and the Director is behind this, we're going up against our own. And I can promise you, you won't live if you try it. Clear?"

 

Dean shot Lucifer and his crew a nasty look but kept his silence. Lucifer continued.

 

"Kali, I want you on observation in the van with Dean. Outfit Sam with one of our tracking chips and keep tabs on him, keep us up to date. Everyone clear?"

 

Abaddon and Balthazar hefted the rucksacks onto their shoulders and Lucifer tucked the schematics back into the filing cabinets. Sam's stomach churned with sick anticipation. As the group filed silently into the garage, Sam desperately kept hoping to himself that they weren't too late.


	21. In Containment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter! In case you forgot about Gabriel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This doesn't hardly count as a chapter but it's a breadcrumb to keep you reading. We're nearly through, I promise. Just a few more chapters.

_God_ , everything hurt. And that wasn't an understatement, either. Every cell in Gabriel's body seemed to ache, twisting and tearing like barbed wire. Slowly, awareness filtered back and he looked around. Chains rattled and sat heavy on his wrists, tying him to the cold tile floor. At first, he tried to stand and immediately, he regretted it. _Shit_ , he'd forgotten. Pain seared through him, flaying him from toe to pelvis.

 

Oh.

 

Right.

 

He'd been shot. A thin cloth wrapped around his leg, tightly wound and staunching the flow of blood. Another bandage covered the ripped stitches in his side. His hand and the bullet wound in his arm were bleeding freely but slowly. He shifted, just slightly, and he felt bruises ache along his side and back.

 

Jesus hell. What a fucking mess. Blearily, he looked around again. Through the haze of pain and the bright, bright lights, a thought occurred to him.

 

Shit, he'd been here before. Maybe not in this exact room, but there were dozens of others that looked exactly like it. This was Containment. What the fuck was he doing there? Gabriel couldn't confidently say he remembered how he got there. He remembered Long, Tall, and Creepy kicking him in the face and the world going dark but after that...nothing. But he did remember the last time he'd been to South Works.

 

There had been an assignment that was capture-no kill. A patriotic somebody had been wreaking racist havoc through the midwest, but Gabriel didn't remember who. He only remembered the look on their face when he delivered them to Containment. After that, who knows what happened to them. The way in and out stuck in his mind though, even if the mark didn't. Gingerly, he tested the arm that hurt the least against the chains. Unfortunately, they were solid and rust free, but he had enough range of movement to reach his pockets, thank god. He stretched and fished through the side pocket of his bloodied tactical pants.

 

_Fuck_.

 

His kit was gone.  Lock picks, knives, everything was gone. Every pocket and seam had been searched and cleaned out. He sat back, panting, and let his arm fall to the floor with a loud clink. No way out. Not unless someone came in and had something he could steal or use. And, Gabriel thought, in this current state, it wasn't fucking likely that he'd be able to actually do anything. Gabriel let his head fall back against the cold wall and the ache settled in.

 

_What was he going to do?_


	22. Fingerpainting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok I'm just gonna say right off that this might be a triggering chapter for some people. Without giving too much away, there's non-con restraining and what could be seen as elements of torture. there is a pretty big plot point here but if you decide to skip it, you'll be able to read the next chapter just fine.

In the van, Sam watched the assassins start loading their weapons.  Balthazar loaded a pistol and handed it to him, handle first, then returned to his own.  Kali was working with his boot, finagling a barbed piece of metal into the sole, giving Dean quiet instructions on where to drive.  Lucifer sat opposite him, sliding bullets into his assault carbine magazine and staring.  Lucifer, it seemed, did a lot of uncomfortable staring.  Sam kept his eyes down on his own gun but when Kali reached back and handed him his boot.  When he made unfortunate eye contact, Sam cleared his throat and bent to tie his shoe back on.  He caught a sneer marring Agent Azrael's face.  

 

At this point, all Sam felt was exasperation.  Despite the fact that not only was Lucifer in tight quarters with him but also holding a gun, Sam straightened in defiance.  In a tight voice, he asked, "What?"

 

Lucifer's sneer grew.  "I can't help wondering to myself what my brother sees in you."

 

Sam frowned and snorted.  "What's it matter to you?"

 

    "My baby brother always did make bad decisions.  Can't seem to learn anything unless he makes the mistake first.  No matter what I tell him," Lucifer murmured.  "You're just another in the line of mistakes.  I told him that after the first time he met you."

 

Sam frowned in confusion.  

 

    "Oh, he didn't tell you?"

 

Sam swallowed hard.  He didn't want to know what Lucifer would say but he couldn't stop him.

 

    "He almost forgot you, you know, a few years ago.  Thought he'd make eyes at you, knock heels, then peel outta there.  I told him he was better off that way.  When he came back, he was all aflutter and he couldn't hardly do his damn job.  A little settin' his head straight, and you went outta sight, outta mind.  If he'd stayed out of that Chicago job like I'd told him, he wouldn't be in this mess."

 

Sam felt his jaw tighten.  Lucifer’s words ate at him because he was right, damn him.  That's what it came down to.  If he hadn’t jumped at the chance to get Gabriel back in bed, then maybe the man would be safe at home instead of rotting away in a Containment cell.  If that was the worst that was happening to him.  Sam sat silent for a moment, feeling Lucifer’s smug victory washing over him.  Then, something occurred to him that Lucifer probably hadn't even considered.

 

    “You can’t control him,” Sam murmured.  “He’s his own person.  He made his choice and I’ve made mine.  You're so wrapped up in yourself that you can't even think something else might make him happy.”

 

Lucifer arched an eyebrow and his lips curled into a nasty smile.

 

    “My baby bro’s been following me since the day he was born.  What choice do you think he has, really, when all he’s ever been is a follower?”

 

This time, Sam sneered.  “You don’t know your brother as well as you think you do, Azrael,” he spat.  

 

    “And you do?” Lucifer countered.

 

    “Yeah,” Sam said defiantly, “I do.  He trusts me.”  He paused for a moment.  “And I trust him.”

 

Lucifer scoffed.  “That’s so sweet.  Makes me wanna puke.  But it ain’t real.  Just a consequence of circumstance.”

 

Sam swallowed hard.  He didn’t reply.  Somewhere deep in his head where he wouldn't hardly admit it to himself, that was a great fear.  How did he know what was real?  Was this all just a result of circumstance?  Would it last?  Sam tightened his grip on his gun and stared pointedly out the front of the van.  Trust me.  Right.  Sam had to trust Gabriel.  He could do this.

 

  
||~~||

 

 

Gabriel jolted awake at the sound of heavy locks disengaging, mouth dry and head full of cotton.  Fuck but wasn’t that a rude awakening.  Literally.  The room was still dark and heavy boots trudged inside as he pulled at the chains.  A man dressed in black stood in the shadows, staring.  Whatever he was doing was designed to make Gabriel uncomfortable and, damn it, it was working.

 

In defense, he said flippantly, “Hey sweetheart, you gotta pay to look at the art.”  

 

The man in black stood silent a moment longer then turned on the lights.  Gabriel groaned as photons assaulted his eyeballs and made explosions of pain starburst under his eyelids.  When he could at last see again, Gabriel shot the man a dirty look. 

 

Wait.

 

Gabriel gasped.  It was Long Tall and Creepy.  It was the henchman that had been chasing him from Texas.  The not-thug.  Now, he was standing, arms crossed and a familiar, nasty smile set on his face.

    “Now, ’s that…better?” he asked.  His voice was sibilant, sliding, breathy.  If a snake could dress in a man’s skin, then Gabriel was definitely talking to a snake.  

    “Seeing as how you haven’t paid me, I wouldn’t say so, ya nickel rat.”

 

Long Tall and Creepy fixed him with a serpentine look and started digging in his pocket.  Gabriel tensed.  Oh god, fuck, what was he digging for?  The man withdrew his hand and made like he was tossing something.  A split second, then Gabriel saw the dime just before it struck him on the nose.  The man’s face split into a twisted toothy grin and he wheezed.  Gabriel supposed he might could call it laughter as the dime tinkled to the ground.  

 

    “I’d say that’s being generous,” the man hissed, “considering you look like a kiddie’s fingerpainting.”

 

Gabriel pressed himself flat against the wall as Long Tall and Creepy stared.  His skin was crawling beneath the ache.  Something was definitely wrong with this guy.  He made every defiant fiber in Gabriel’s body rear up and take up defense positions.

 

    “Who’ve I got the pleasure of telling to fuck off?” Gabriel asked with a toss of his head.

The man smiled wide.  Unnaturally wide.  Christ, Gabriel could almost see his molars.  He trudged forward and crouched at eye level.  He didn’t pull a weapon, but he didn’t need to.  Gabriel felt the beginnings of adrenaline kick in as the man leaned closer.  Long Tall and Creepy dragged a finger through the blood seeping down one of Gabriel’s shackled hands.  For an instant, it looked like the guy might stick his finger in his mouth and taste that blood.  Then, the moment broke and the man wiped his bloodied finger across Gabriel’s cheek.  Loki recoiled against the wall and tested his strength against the chains again.  He lunged with what energy he had, desperate to wrap his hands around that skinny neck and get free.  God, even if he could just get out of the cell, that would be enough.  Long Tall and Creepy wheezed a laugh again, just out of reach no matter how Gabriel strained.  

 

    “Alistair.  I’m kind of a quartermaster in my division.  Make sure we get all the…proper information and tools,” he said, painting more nonsensical figures on Loki’s face in blood.  He sat back, apparently satisfied with his fingerprinting.  “Right now, I’ve got some questions for you, Loki.” 

 

He gave a quick wave.  Two men in black suits wheeled in a gurney outfitted with thick leather restraints.  Terror gripped Gabriel and he thrashed despite the agony.

 

    “No, _no_!  You crazy bastards!  Don’t you dare—”

 

The two men grabbed his legs and white hot pain streaked through him.  He screamed, and the men strapped him down.  Over his scream, he heard Long Tall and Creepy’s laughter reach a fevered pitch.  Like a radioshow host, he shouted, “Caller One, time to get persuasive!”


	23. Come on Out, Pussycat

Dean eased the van away from the dock and around the corner. Sam watched Balthazar duck into the skiff in the rearview mirror until he was out of sight. Next stop. Lucifer and Abbadon disembarked into a dark street, hefting their automatics. When it was only Kali, Dean, and Sam, a tense silence fell. Kali fiddled with the radio receiver until she had all agents on all channels open. Sam half expected to hear some kind of banter, but he was only met with the hiss of radio silence. Kali turned back and tossed him a small, tan object.

 

“Put it on,” she commanded, pointing to her ear.

 

Sam swallowed and fit the piece into his ear.

 

“Do you read me clear?” she asked.

 

Sam watched her lips move and heard her voice sounding imperious clear in his ear. He nodded in affirmation when she looked at him, expectant.

 

“You’ll be able to talk to me,” she said, turning back to the receiver. “You’ll also be able to hear where the others are and what they are saying, so you don’t end up shooting someone you shouldn’t. I'm recording. Look as long as you can without getting caught. But, make sure you activate your transmitter when you find Loki.”

 

Dean pulled the van into the empty drive of South Works and Sam felt his stomach squirm uncomfortably. Nerves were setting in. His teeth were on edge, his fingers itching. Sam took a few deep breaths before he threw open the van door. He passed by Dean’s window, and his brother grabbed his shoulder.

 

“Be careful in there, Sammy,” Dean muttered, squeezing his shoulder tight.

 

Sam held his brother’s gaze but his throat closed. This was it. It might be the last time he saw Dean alive and he couldn’t think of any words to say. Instead, Sam nodded and flipped the safety off his pistol. He strode through the front gate and ignored the ominous crunch of gravel as the van departed.

 

 

 

 

 

The drive was empty. No guards, no security of any kind. Sam walked quietly in the grass off to the side, keeping a weather eye out for anything that might give him away. Before it was time, anyway. But still, nothing. On the right was an empty docking canal and closing in on the left was a row of darkened buildings. The compound had every smell and appearance of a steel mill, but the silence of the place gave Sam pause. Even in the dead of night, machinery should be whirring or clanking. The sounds of industry slept for no one, but here they were silent. He supposed the Morningstar agents hadn’t thought too much of that. Abruptly, Abaddon’s voice filtered into his ear.

 

“Finished Materials building sweep. Clear.”

 

Static hissed for a moment before he heard Balthazar reply, “Copy. Docks clear.”

 

Kali’s voice hummed over the speaker. “Use caution. This situation reads dangerous.”

 

Sam glanced around the compound before he broke away from the road. He hunched low to the ground, finger on the trigger of his gun. The agents had intentionally fitted him with only one weapon and Sam felt naked as he approached the building nearest to him. He circled, unsurprising when there were no windows to look through. But, there was a single door labeled ‘Operations’ in black stenciled letters. No, this wasn’t the right building. Sam glanced over the floodlit space between Operations and the next building. As quick as he could, he dashed across the distance and pressed his back to the cold sheet-metal wall. Still no one. Sam felt unease build higher in his gut as he crept around to the front. On the right, beside the only visible door, was a keypad. The stenciled letters here read ‘Containment’, just as Kali had said it would.

 

“Kali, I found it,” Sam murmured. “I need the code.”

 

Before the agent could reply, Sam heard footfalls approaching. The chatter of distorted voices filtered through the door. The singer scrambled back and pressed himself against the wall in the dark. Kali started to read off the code to him when the door burst open and a gurney wheeled out into the night.

 

At first, Sam thought whoever was strapped to it was dead, but then he saw his mistake. They weren’t dead. They were gagged. Gagged and bound to the table, struggling against the bonds. One man in a black suit pushed the gurney onto the concrete pathway into the light, followed by two other men, one stocky, one looking death-like. Then, Sam realized. Harsh floodlights shone off familiar blond hair and Sam’s stomach turned.

 

Gabriel.

 

Before he realized in full what he was doing, Sam squeezed off a shot at the man pushing Gabriel. His gun exploded in the quiet night and the goon slumped to the ground, surprised and quite dead. The other two scrambled for cover as Sam fired again. This time, he wasn’t so lucky. He hit the second, stockier man, yes, but he didn’t kill him. Sam felt sick to his stomach as the man clutched his thigh and rolled to the ground with a shout. The thin man glanced at his fallen companion and pulled a gun from under his jacket. Sam took aim again, but he froze solid when the thin man stood and pointed the barrel of his gun. Not in Sam’s general direction but at Gabriel’s head.

 

“Come on out, pussycat,” he called in a slithering voice. “Or I’ll kill your pretty mouse.” Sam clenched his teeth in frustration. The man cocked his gun. “That’s not what you want, is it? Don’t you want your prize?”

 

Sam lowered his pistol, defeated, as the thin man pressed his barrel to Gabriel’s forehead. The singer emerged from the shadows, pistol raised and arms spread in surrender. Now, the thin man trained his gun on Sam and motioned him forward with his head.

 

“Just do as he says, Sam,” Kali said in his ear. “Do not jeopardize Loki. The others are on their way.”

 

Sam walked forward, keeping his eyes on the thin man, unwilling to risk a glance at Gabriel. At last, he was close enough to reach out and touch Gabriel, but he refrained. The soldier looked up at him with distraught eyes and Sam’s heart cracked just a bit. The thin man glanced down at Loki then back up at Sam, understanding biting into his features.

 

“Oh,” the thin man breathed. “You must be Sam Winchester.”

 

Abruptly, the man lowered his gun and shot his moaning companion into silence. Sam’s ears rang in the aftermath and the man retrained his pistol in Sam’s face. Who the hell was this monster? Like he’d read Sam’s mind, the man said, “Alistair, at your service.”

 

Sam swallowed hard and glanced at Gabriel. Alistair shot a knowing look between the singer and the soldier.

 

“Or rather,” he hissed, “I think you’ll be of service to me. Let’s go.”

 

Alistair motioned with his gun for Sam to move and the singer gingerly pushed Gabriel forward. He didn’t dare look down again, but he scuffed his shoe against the concrete, activating his transmitter. He just hoped to hell that the others were close behind.


	24. In Persuasion p. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rough shit at the end. working into persuasion

Back in the van, Dean twitched with impatience. He couldn't hear what was going on on Sam's end, but he could gather it wasn't good. He stared at Kali as she wrangled a piece of equipment that had started beeping at her.

 

"What's going on?" he asked sharply.

 

Kali glared daggers at him before returning to her device. "Sam has activated his transmitter," she murmured. "He's found Loki."

 

Dean breathed a sigh of relief. "Great, where are they? Let's get them the hell out of there!"

 

Kali snorted. "Have you forgotten, Dean Winchester?" she asked. "Your brother is bait."

 

Dean stiffened. "He's captured then?"

 

Kali nodded seriously, checking her device against the map in her lap. "Morningstar, converge on Persuasion. Repeat. Azrael, Balthazar, Abaddon, they're moving Loki to Persuasion as we speak."

 

Dean's eyes widened. "Shit, I can't do this!" he declared. "I gotta get in there, Sammy needs me."

 

He fumbled to open the door when he heard a telltale click and the feel of cold metal around his wrist. Kali sat back in her seat and stared at her tracking device as Dean realized what she'd done. She'd cuffed him to the steering wheel, that's what she'd done.

 

"Godddamn it, Kali, let me outta here!"

 

She shot him a sharp look, her voice sending a shiver of dread down his spine. "Mr. Winchester," she intoned, "you go in there now, you've signed Loki's death certificate. And your brother's."

 

Dean pulled on the handcuffs in frustration. "Why d'you care so much about that bastard anyway?"

 

"Why don't you?" Kali countered. "Morningstar, they have entered Persuasion. Move when ready."

 

Dean couldn't hear the replies. He mulled over his own, instead. "Gabe's pretty sweet on him. My brother loves him. And I care about my brother," he said at last.

 

Kali hummed in agreement. "Yes, it is rather disgusting how far Loki has fallen." When Dean began sputtering in protest, she continued. "That said, there are few that would undertake this and I respect Sam for his devotion to Loki's return. Loki is my dear friend, Dean Winchester, and I would rather not see him come to ruin."

 

Dean tugged once more on the handcuffs. "How do you know this won't 'come to ruin'?" he asked, deflated.

 

A dangerous smile spread across Kali's red, red lips. She said, "Because I've outfitted dear Abaddon with her favorite weapon. And I doubt there is anything more dangerous than that."

 

||~~||

 

Sam gently wheeled Gabriel's gurney into a sterile-looking building, prodded by Alistair's gun. Faint beads of sweat were gathering on Gabriel's forehead and Sam had no doubt that he was in pain. His leg and arm were oozing blood into the stainless steel, his skin pale. The door opened into a vast, open room, cold and harsh. Contraptions that Sam would rather not dwell on gleamed menacingly in the bright lights. Alistair followed close behind, but he didn't press his gun to Sam's back. He only hummed a tuneless, foreboding song to himself.

 

"Stop," Alistair commanded. "Turn around."

 

Sam spared one more look at Gabriel's taut face before putting his hands up in the air and following Alistair's instructions. The thin man blew air noisily out between his lips as he looked Sam up and down. A small pit of dread settled in Sam's stomach.

 

"My my, you're a big one. I don't even know if you'll fit on my racks like you're supposed to," Alistair whined. He put one hand on his hip and shook his head then tsked and stalked forward.

 

Sam backed up until he felt one of the contraptions collide with his back. Alistair advanced, still pointing his gun at Sam, and shoved him back flat against the metal. In seconds, the thin man had Sam immobilized on a solid metal rack, and there was nothing he could do. Alistair took a step back and tilted his head in a disappointed sort of way.

 

"Well," he sighed, "it's not exactly right. But it'll have to do."

 

Alistair hummed again and deposited his gun on a nearby table. Sam tracked him with wary eyes. This man, this creature has completely blindsided him. What kind of person shoots one of their own when they're injured? Who whistles while they kill people? Sam watched Alistair unstrap Gabriel and affix heavy cuffs to his wrists. Without warning, he dumped Gabriel to the ground and rolled the gurney out of the way. The soldier lay groaning on the cold floor. Alistair grinned ferociously and threaded a hook through an eye on Gabriel's cuffs. He pressed a button and Loki was pulled up from the floor. A loud whir of a machine left him dangling with his knees just inches from the ground. Alistair wanted the high ground and he clearly knew how to get it.

 

"You know," Alistair muttered, "I thought long and hard about how to do this. You're not the first, I hope you appreciate that. Lots of...troubleshooting."

 

Gabriel's eyes widened and Sam realized the other agents' suspicions had just been confirmed.

 

Alistair swung around and planted his hand on a control box for emphasis. "Never got more than a few names out of the others, but you," he declared, "you're special."

 

The thin man sauntered forward. Sam opened his mouth to ask what the hell that meant but he tied a foul piece of leather between the singer's teeth. Gabriel lifted his head and it lolled back. Sam watched helplessly. He was desperate to reassure him but he couldn't. Loki tried to keep steady, his breath shuddering through him, and he locked eyes with Sam. Why? That's what he was asking. Exhausted as he was, the question couldn't have been clearer. Sam tried to reply there was a plan. He tried to exude a kind of reassurance across the frigid air of the room. Then, Alistair stepped between them.

 

"Now, now," he jeered. "This is no time for heartfelt gazes and proclamations of love! We're just getting started!"

 

Sam couldn't. He couldn't watch what Alistair was going to do. He kept his eyes fastened on Gabriel. God, where were the others? Shouldn't they have been there by now?

 

Alistair stalked back to the control box and flipped a few switches. Machinery started and hummed in the night, mimicking Alistair's ominous tune in mechanized babel.

 

"Ready?" Alistair called over the machine.

 

Sam said nothing. Gabriel said nothing. Despair arched like lightning between them. Alistair flipped the last switch and suddenly, every nerve in Sam's body was on fire.


	25. In Persuasion p. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AN: edited, adding a little content that I forgot
> 
> yikes. torture scenes ahead. rough shit. also a long chapter. sorryyyyyy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok this is really, really long and i struggled through it so if you see something that needs edited, please let me know

Gabriel could have cried if he'd had any tears left. Sam's body shook, arched away from the current running through the contraption. Gabriel had known exactly what it was before Alistair had ever pushed the singer onto it. Chugging in the background was a generator, attached to the metal of the rack. It pumped up to 10,000 volts through whoever was strapped to it. The torture was two-fold. The first: incredible, painful electric currents. Then, when used long enough, the metal became hot enough to sear.

 

Alistair let the current run just a moment longer before he hit the switch again. The voltage couldn't have been high, but it was enough to hurt, that much was certain. Even Confidantes--torturers--had to keep their prey alive. The machine was set high enough to make it feel like insects were burrowing under their victim's skin, but not high enough to completely disrupt body functions for long. Sam collapsed onto the rack, panting heavy through his nose then he groaned. Gabriel's stomach clenched. Alistair turned back to Gabriel with a sick sort of smile.

 

"Now, whaddya think?" he simpered. "Can we all...get along? All I need is little information."

 

Gabriel shot Sam a heated glance but the singer was fervently shaking his head. Still, even through this, Sam was on his side. The assassin's arms shook as he hung and Alistair raised his eyebrows expectantly. When neither man said anything more, he heaved a heavy sigh and turned back to him controls.

 

"I'm tellin' ya," he said with a shake of his head, "this would all be a helluva lot easier if you'd cooperate here. Otherwise...who knows what'll happen?"

 

He hit the switch with an abrupt motion and this time, Sam screamed.

 

"No!" Gabriel cried, straining against the cuffs that bound him. "No, no, no!" Sam was writhing, screaming, and there was nothing he could do. Alistair cut the power and Sam quivered as the remnant shock dissipated. Gabriel choked.

 

"You fuckin' fiend!" he raged. "Let him go!" Alistair leveled him with an unsympathetic look. " _Please_. He's not one of us, you don't know what you're doing!"

 

Alistair smiled his toothy smile and opened his mouth to reply. The door opened with a bang. Gabriel caught Sam perking up and the three men turned. Gabriel wasn’t sure who Sam was expecting but from the look on his face, it wasn’t the right person.

 

It was Naomi, the Director.

 

Oh, thank fuck. She could get them out! She may be the head of Morningstar now, but she was once an agent. Fully capable.

 

Then, Gabriel looked harder.

 

She didn’t have a gun. Not a weapon in sight and there wasn't a place to hide one in the grey pantsuit of hers. Alistair didn’t seem to be at all bothered by her appearance. A little perturbed, perhaps, but not surprised.

 

“Don’t you know not to interrupt a professional when he’s working?” he asked sardonically.

 

Naomi was paused in the doorway, looking back and forth between Gabriel and Sam. Then, his words seemed to snap her into action. She strode forward, arms stretched wide, and said, “Get it together. We have to get it right this time.”

 

Alistair rolled his eyes and his fingers looked as though they were itching to flip the switch. "I don't think we'll have much of a problem. This one's stubborn," he said, gesturing at Sam with his chin, "but he won't be for long."

 

"Anything yet?" she asked, crossing her arms in front of her.

 

Alistair scoffed. “Persuasion has all the time in the world, my dear, if you do it right.”

 

He smiled wide. Her face suggested she'd rather be working with roadkill but she strode to the control box anyway.

 

"Wh--wha--" Gabriel looked between, incredulity painting his features. "What they fuck? How--"

 

"Hit him again," Naomi instructed.

 

Sam's eyes widened and before Gabriel could protest, the singer was shaking. A scream ripped through Sam's stomach and out his throat. Alistair smiled manically. Next to Naomi's stoic face, he seemed even more the madman. But it was the Director's calm composure that shook Gabriel the most. How? How could she do this? Condone it?

 

Alistair flipped the current off again and Sam sank back into the rack. The smell of ozone permeated the air and Gabriel felt like he would vomit.

 

"It's not your concern, my hows or whys," Naomi retorted while Sam panted. "All you need to know is that Sam Winchester will die if you don't cooperate."

 

Alistair snickered manically and Gabriel's jaw dropped.

 

"Wait, please--"

 

"Where can I find the Reaper files?"

 

Gabriel froze. Reaper files? The Reaper files were incredibly guarded and worth their weight in platinum for those who knew what to do with them. The files held the personal information of every Reaper employed by the Agency: what their codename was, their personal information. Hell, even their home address. It was something of a holy grail and her desire for it made something click into place.

 

 **Traitor**.

 

But, no one had ever seen them, and he had to say as much.

 

"I don't know! No one knows!" Gabriel shouted, straining against his bonds in vain.

 

Naomi's lips thinned and, without warning, she flipped the switch again. Gabriel felt tears threaten in his eyes as Sam screamed. God, he couldn't hardly watch but he couldn't bring himself to look away, either. That felt like more of a betrayal than anything else. Sam shook for a few moments, then the torture was abruptly ended as soon as it started.

 

"Where," Naomi repeated, digging grit out of her nails nonchalantly, "would I find the Reaper files?"

 

Gabriel stared pointedly at Sam and didn't answer. The singer's skin was flushed red, his chest heaving. What he'd said was true; he didn't know. But, that didn't seem to put much a damper on her resolve or Alistair's enthusiasm.

 

"Mr. Novak, you know that, as a director, I do not have unlimited access. I do only what the name implies: I direct. Assign cases, manage. You seem to corroborate what I've learned from other Reapers; no one seems to know where the Reaper files are kept."

 

Gabriel stared at her incredulously. _Other Reapers?_ Just how many had she gotten her claws into?

 

"Luckily, I have a backup plan. Before the last one...expired, she told me the name of someone who would know. Azrael."

 

The air left Gabriel's lungs in a rush.

 

"I discovered sometime later that Agent Azrael...had a brother. And though unlikely, he may have shared information with you about the files. However, seeing that he hasn't, I still have the advantage."

 

Gabriel grit his teeth and kept his eyes on Sam. He knew what was coming. What is always came down to...

 

"Leverage, Loki. If I have you, I have him. I knew you wouldn't give him up easily which is why I need Mr. Winchester. He has given me a way to you."

 

Sam closed his eyes, regret written into the lines of his face, and bile rose in Gabriel's throat.

 

"What do you mean to do?" he asked, vitriolic. "You don't know Azrael like I do. He's Lead Reaper, even his title tells you that he's a stubborn sonuvabitch."

 

Alistair giggled to himself, making Gabriel's skin crawl and his stomach turn. Naomi only smiled pleasantly.

 

"I would hazard a guess that you don't know Azrael as well as you think."

 

The assassin's brow furrowed.

 

"He's on his way to Containment, right now. I had the pleasure of listening in on the traitorous planning session he held in my basement and planned accordingly."

 

No. No, it couldn't be. Lucifer should know better, goddamn it. Gabriel glanced between Sam's defeated posture and Naomi's triumphant smile. _What the fuck was his brother thinking?_

 

As if to twist the knife further, she said, "And Mr. Winchester offered himself up as bait. Very noble. And very stupid. It seems he's very taken with you, Loki."

 

Though his heart ached, Gabriel gathered the rest of his resolve and stared the Director down. "He won't give them to you, you know," he spat. "Azrael has always been a big picture kinda guy and I don't think he thinks I'm worth the lives of all those Reapers."

 

Naomi stiffened at his remark and immediately flipped the switch on Sam but her smile didn't falter. This time, she walked away from the control box and let it sit, current open. Alistair took the opportunity to worm his way back behind his beloved box and let the machine run.

 

"Stop! Stop, please!" Gabriel shouted as Sam shook under the voltage. Jesus, they were going to kill him at this rate. Sam could probably only withstand a couple more shocks before serious damage started to set in. Naomi nodded to Alistair as if Gabriel had asked for a glass of water instead of begging for his lover's life.

 

"He might be more...receptive after he finds the surprise I left them in Containment," Alistair said in his slithering tone.

 

Gabriel reared back. Oh, fuck, what--

 

"Let's move then," Naomi said, imperious.  Alistair whined to himself but shut the switch off and let Sam shake into stillness.  For a moment, Gabriel thought he might be dead and his breath froze.

 

Then, Sam caught his eye. Not on purpose, but knowing Sam like he did made Gabriel pay attention. The singer was placid, or as much as someone could be after having been electrocuted. Sam knew something the Director didn't.

 

"Why do you want to the Reaper names anyway?" Gabriel asked. He felt certain he knew the answer but his gut told him to distract. They needed a distraction. "What good is that going to do you? Think you can send them all an apology card for being such a shitty Director?"

 

Naomi scowled and she strode to where Gabriel hung prone, pulling the pin holding his restraints to the chain. Gabriel’s knees collided cruelly with the floor and he toppled into a bloody heap. The Director grimaced and toed him onto his back with one pointed heel.

 

“You should know better than to ask questions,” she murmured.

 

Alistair sauntered to Sam and quickly unstrapped him, allowing the singer to collapse opposite Gabriel. Before Sam could regain his footing, Alistair bound his hands with rope and tightened his leather gag. Naomi bent, angling to take hold of Gabriel’s arm and pull him upright. The assassin jerked. His head collided with her nose in a most satisfying crunch then, blood started pouring from her face. The kick he received was nearly worth it. Alistair snickered and steered the disoriented singer toward an escape panel, secreted in a corner.

 

“Mr. Novak, there are some things in this world you should not do,” Naomi intoned, wiping blood from her face. “Breaking the nose of your captor is one of them. Didn’t you learn anything?”

 

Gabriel began shuffling backward as quick as he could and spat on the Director’s pristine pant leg. “Fuck you,” he managed.

 

Naomi sighed heavily and, staunching her bloody nose, she heaved the assassin upright. Gabriel groaned, pain spiking deep in his bones. Through the hazy ache, he saw Alistair had Sam pinned against the wall as he tried to put in another code. Like any Morningstar door, the escape panel was locked until the right keycode was entered. It prevented prisoners from escaping and from anyone entering by that door. Blearily, Gabriel mused what a design flaw that must be. Naomi shoved him forward but, even with the added momentum, he didn't get far. Gabriel's wounded leg gave out from under him in no time at all and he crumpled again with a muffled shout. The Director scoffed. Then--an explosion.

 

The Persuasion building shook to its foundations and the main door bent inward with a sickening squeak. With a shudder, Sam fell away from the wall and sank into a heap. Naomi and Alistair ducked for cover.

 

"What the hell is going on?" Naomi shouted as the building shook under another explosion.

 

Gabriel stared. From the smoke and fire strode a familiar smirking figure, shotgun tossed over his shoulder.

 

"See, I thought I smelled a rat!" Lucifer shouted. "I didn't realize there'd be two."

 

Agent Azrael sauntered in, Balthazar and Abbadon following close behind. Balthazar took aim at Alistair while Abbadon held an enormous gun at the level of her eye, even with the Director. Naomi glared and rose slowly to her feet, brushing the settling dust from her suit.

 

"Azrael. What a pleasure to have you breaking down my door," Noami sneered.

 

"Oh, that wasn't me, boss lady," Lucifer taunted. "That's what happens when you give Abbadon the big guns."

 

Abbadon smiled neatly and hefted her gun a little higher, making sure the Director could see the grenade launcher built into the barrel. Gabriel could see Balthazar rolling his eyes. _What the hell were they doing here?_

 

"Azrael--" Gabriel panted.

 

Lucifer shot him a silencing look but shifted nonchalantly. Naomi narrowed her eyes at Sam then lifted her chin as a thought clicked into place.

 

"A mic,” she declared. "Nicely played."

 

Gabriel glanced between Sam and Lucifer. The singer had regained his footing, standing so that Alistair was exposed, cowering as he had been. Sam's eyes were hard, his limbs were still shaking. But he didn't deny his role.

 

Lucifer sighed noisily. "Yes, well, had to be done, I'm afraid. Those I was rather hoping you'd get him out of the picture before I got here."

 

Gabriel stared incredulously. Just what the fuck did that mean? Naomi smiled tightly.

 

"I needed a reliable piece of leverage," Naomi replied. "Not a good practice to throw away resources, Azrael."

 

Lucifer's mouth turned down in a considering sort of way before he bumped the shotgun from his shoulder and fired in Sam's general direction. Gabriel couldn't breathe when he heard Sam shout. Though he didn't see where, a few stray pieces of buckshot tore through Sam and laid him to the floor. Alistair slumped away, hands shaking and bloodied. Gabriel let out a huge breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Only Alistair slid to the floor, breath rattling from his throat, not Sam. The light faded swiftly from Alistair’s eyes, not Sam’s. The singer was left sprawled, bound and bleeding on the floor.

 

“You’re right, of course,” Lucifer said in a jeering tone. “But it’s always so much easier.”

 

Balthazar shifted uncomfortably behind his leader but Abbadon had a pleased glint in her eye.

 

“So,” he continued, “let’s hear the story.”

 

“Azrael,” Balthazar said in a low tone.

 

“We need to take care of the Director.”

 

“Azrael, your brother is fucking bleedin’ out over here!”

 

Lucifer snarled. Gabriel faintly realized Balthazar was right. Everything was getting hazy but he had enough in him for one thing more. Gabriel staggered forward, through Abbadon’s line of sight up to Lucifer’s knees.

 

“Sweet hell,” Balthazar said under his breath, wrapping the strap of his automatic around his shoulders. He bent, pulling Gabriel to his feet and slinging the wounded man’s arm around his shoulder.

 

Gabriel huffed and panted, easing most of his weight on to the leg that wasn’t ruined. He turned and released Balthazar, staring hard at Agent Azrael. Then, he reared back and punched Lucifer in the face. His brother did not cry out but he did stumble back a step. Gabriel took an agonizing half-step forward and grabbed tight to the lapels of Lucifer’s suit jacket.

 

“You listen to me, brother,” Gabriel said, steady as he could. “Sam is in need of some fucking medical attention. Shit, I need a medic. Drop this bullshit right now and get us the fuck out. She’ll talk later.”

 

Naomi began edging back toward the escape door as he spoke and Gabriel wheeled. Taking hold of Balthazar’s automatic, he fired a wild shot low. Naomi screamed as the bullets knocked her shins out from under her and, at last, Gabriel felt satisfaction settle around his weaving shoulders. He turned back to Lucifer, who stared at him with calculating eyes.

 

“She’s not goin’ nowhere now,” Gabriel muttered.

 

“Azrael, please,” Balthazar interjected quietly. “Let’s get them out of here.”

 

Lucifer glanced at Naomi and Sam, prone upon the floor, then at Abbadon. The Confidante returned his look expectantly. Then, Lucifer nodded, just enough to confirm. Abbadon scoffed and swung her gun onto her back, freeing a set of cuffs from her belt and stalking toward Naomi. Lucifer glanced at Gabriel.

 

“Fair enough, little brother,” he murmured as he hauled Sam upright. He flicked open his blade and, for a terrible instant, Gabriel thought Lucifer might finish him off. Then, the instant passed and Lucifer cut the ties around Sam’s wrists and wrapped the singer’s long arm around his shoulder. “Kali, we’re ready for transport.”

 

 

 

Wherever they were taken next, Gabriel would never remember. He knew what Balthazar told him. That he and Sam were taken to Medical and Naomi was left to Abbadon’s devices. But, he wouldn’t hear that until later.


	26. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The penultimate chapter

Gabriel awoke for a second time with a deep hurt settled into his bones. The lights were so bright. Why were they always so fucking bright? He groaned and sat up, feeling every muscle ache. Then, he saw a few familiar faces.

 

“You really should not be moving yet,” a distinct, clipped feminine voice reprimanded.

 

“Oh, for god’s sake, Kali,” Balthazar muttered.

 

Gabriel glanced blearily at them and shook his head. “What, am I being tortured in the afterlife? Is this what purgatory is, listening to you two bitch at each other for all eternity?”

 

Kali scoffed. “Hardly, Loki,” she retorted. “We’re here to make sure you didn’t die. You're at New York's Medical. Best treatment available, of course.”

 

“Mm, yes. Agent Azrael’s special orders.”

 

Gabriel dared to stretch his neck and then leveled the pair with a disbelieving look. Balthazar shifted uncomfortably in his seat but Kali remained unfazed.

 

“Azrael regrets to inform you that he will be preoccupied for the next few days, bringing the Cabinet up to date and supervising Abbadon’s…information extraction,” Kali said, inspecting her perfectly red nails.

 

Gabriel rubbed his eyes. “Where’s Sam?”

 

“We’ve discovered that she was a member of a rival faction, out for the Reaper files to destroy the competition. Always about money with you damn yanks,” Balthazar muttered.

 

“And I’m sure you’re so much more dignified, says Mr. Hundred-Dollar-Haircut,” Kali taunted.

 

“Oh, for the love of—You can’t hold that over my head forever.”

 

“Guys.”

 

“Yes, indeed. For what would become of your lovely hair then?”

 

“It was well worth—“

 

“Guys!” Gabriel shouted at last. Jesus, it was like trying to separate two fighting cocks. Fuck, they were a pair of cocks, jesus. “Where is Sam?”

 

Balthazar and Kali glanced at each other. “He’s up,” Kali said at last. “He was looking for you.”

 

Gabriel scrambled out from under the covers. “Why didn’t you send him here, then?” Gabriel demanded.

 

“You were sleeping, Loki,” Kali said, a worried frown finally wrinkling her starched demeanor. “You needed the rest.”

 

Gabriel fumbled for a set of crutches and nearly ate tile when his slick hospital shoes slipped. Balthazar darted forward.

 

“Here. Christ,” he groused, handing Gabriel the crutches. “Just don’t kill yourself on the way out.”

 

Gabriel paused and looked meaningfully at the pair. “Hey, um. Thanks,” he muttered. “Thanks for comin’ after me.”

 

“You should have known we would,” Kali replied primly.

 

“And don’t be too hard on your brother,” Balthazar interjected. “Azrael may hate your boyfriend, but this whole crazy scheme was the kid’s plan. He respects him enough these days. Carried the giant lump all the way back to the van. He didn’t actually mean to shoot him.”

 

Gabriel smirked and shook his head. He should have known. Lucifer may indeed hate Sam and he certainly wasn’t ever going to apologize for shooting him, but respect was enough. He nodded at the pair once more before shuffling out into the hall.

 

“Where’d you see him last?” Gabriel asked, hopping away on his crutches.

 

“I’d try down in the sun room,” Balthazar called.

 

Gabriel offered a wave back and huffed around the corner just in time to hear Kali say, “It’s called a solarium, idiot.”

 

 

 

 

As it turned out, Balthazar was right. Sam was sitting in a stark white chair in the sunlight, wrapped in a sickly blue hospital gown and holding tight to his left arm. Gabriel paused in the doorway, trying to catch his breath. Then, he stared. God but Sam was beautiful. The angle of the sunlight lit his profile and threw his shadow into artistic relief upon the ground. Even staring out the window in consternation, Sam was a sight to behold. Abruptly, Gabriel glanced down at himself. God, would Sam want to see him like this? Did he really want Sam to see him like this, torn down and broken? The nightmare was over; the kid could get outta here and get back to singin’ where he rightfully should. Gabriel stood contemplating this a moment more until he heard a very audible gasp and a softly whispered, “Gabe…”

 

Then, Sam was hobbling toward him, blue robe fluttering open and white scrubs scratching. The buckshot must have grazed his calf, Gabriel mused faintly before he stirred into action. Damn the crutches, they wouldn’t help him now. Gabriel let them clatter to the floor and hopped to meet Sam halfway. Well, maybe not halfway. Shit but what a sight they must have made. Neither fully capable of running romantically to the other, both bruised and stitched and broken instead.

 

But when they finally did meet, it was as natural as waves lapping the shore. Sam enveloped Gabriel in long arms and pulled him tight, supporting him where he could and leaning for support where he couldn’t. And wasn’t that just the cat’s meow. They fit, just like they should have.

 

Sam choked and held him tight. Gabriel ran a hand through Sam’s long hair and soothed him.

 

“Hey, hey sugar,” he murmured into Sam’s neck. “It’s alright. We’re alright. We’re alright.”

 

“Gabe,” Sam stuttered. “I didn’t know where you were. I didn’t know if you were ok, I couldn’t find you. I couldn’t find you.”

 

“Shh, sweetheart, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

 

Sam pulled back and smiled wetly through faint tears. “You’re ok,” he whispered. He raised his shaking left hand and gently traced a dark bruise along Gabriel’s jaw. The assassin frowned and took Sam’s hand. It didn’t stop shaking. Gabriel looked at Sam, questioning.

 

“The doctor’s said the…shocks left some permanent damage,” Sam said softly, staring at his shaking hand.

 

“Anything else?” Gabriel asked, wary of what he might get as an answer.

 

Sam only smiled and smoothed Gabriel’s hair from his forehead with his shaking hand. “No,” he replied. “Just my hand. Probably won’t ever be able to shoot a gun again.”

 

Gabriel huffed a laugh then immediately regretted it.   _Everything_ hurt. Sam made worried noises and between the two of them, they were able to hobble across the room and sink into a stark white couch. Gabriel leaned his head back on the cushions and threaded his fingers unselfconsciously through Sam’s.

 

“What about you?” Sam asked, fear tinging his voice.

 

Gabriel cocked his head and smiled at Sam. “Nothin’ time won’t fix.”

 

Sam smiled back and held tight to Gabriel’s hand. “Any idea where you’d been spendin’ that time?” he asked.

 

“I dunno,” Gabriel huffed. “I kinda thought about goin’ back west. Recuperate in this cute little house in Chicago. Not nearly as cute as the guy who owns it though. Whew, you could bounce a nickel off his ass, that much’s for sure.”

 

Sam’s small smile cracked into a dimpled grin. “Meanin’ I might get to show you a good time ‘round Chicago?” he echoed. “I’m real good company.”

 

Gabriel sobered for a moment and glanced out the window. “If you’ll have me, I’d love to keep you company for a good, long while, sweetheart.”

 

Sam was quiet for a moment, then he twisted one long finger under Gabriel’s chin and inched him closer so their lips where only a breath apart. “I love company,” he whispered.

 

With nothing to hurt them and no one around, Sam touched his lips to Gabriel, softly.

 

Finally.

 

At last.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week: Epilogue! Thank you so much to everyone who has been following this story since its inception. Thank you so much for your time and for your patience. I hope you've enjoyed the ride, bloody and angst-ridden as it was. Don't forget you can always come talk with me at i-am-the-ass-admiral.tumblr.com and if you feel there's something that really needs to be wrapped up, leave me a comment and tell me all about it!


	27. Epilogue: "I do."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it. This is the last. Thanks again to everyone who's been reading. If you feel up to it, leave me a comment and tell me what you think. This is by far the cheesiest thing I've ever written, but I feel like I owed it to you and I had a lot of fun doing it. Now, excuse me while I go cry in a corner.

Epilogue

 

_1961 - Three Years Later_

 

Gabriel sauntered into the joint like he owned it. Sure, it was swank with red velvet curtains hanging from every window and he looked like road-worn shit. Yes, he limped a bit, but the confident square of his shoulders told even the bouncers to get bent. Besides, they should know who he was by now. Sam was back on track, performing in the most premier clubs all over Chicago. He heard a cello tuning from the stage and made a quick stop at the bar. Tonight was a special night and his luck had held long enough to not be late despite the job he'd finished in Seattle.

 

Sam stood on the stage, dressed solidly in black save for his bright gold tie. Gabriel felt his face pink, because he knew exactly why Sam had picked that tie. Reminded him of someone, he'd said. Cheeky bastard.

 

Martini in hand, Gabriel wove his way through the crowded floor to a special table he'd reserved right at the front of the stage. He folded himself neatly into his seat, trying for Sam's sanity not to flop about as usual. Castiel tuned his cello once more. Dean blew a few notes on his harmonica and Kevin, the drummer, adjusted his hi-hat. The band had grown since Gabriel had first seen Sam in Chuck's crappy run-down bar, but their sound was just as good. Gabriel sipped his martini and waited. He could barely make out Sam's soft muttering to the band over the hubbub in the club. Then, Dean began playing a soft, melancholy intro, Cas backing with plucked string and Kevin swishing the snare.

 

"Ladies and gentlemen," Sam said, voice mellifluous and low, "this first song was made popular by Sarah Vaughan. You might've heard ole Rosemary sing it, but Sarah's always been my favorite. I can just picture it, lovers on the sand, and I hope you'll see it with me."

 

Gabriel sat forward in his seat and stared up at Sam; the singer hadn't spared him a glance yet. He knew Sam loved the water and he had a romantic streak in him a mile wide. He'd had a whole year to explore, to relearn all of Sam's edges. That's why he was doing this. Hopefully, it wouldn't turn out the wrong way.

 

_"The evening breeze_   
_Caressed the trees, tenderly_   
_The trembling trees_   
_Embraced the breeze, tenderly."_

 

A hush had fallen over the crowd as Sam sang, the only sounds a faint clinking of glasses and the shuffle of feet beneath his voice. He sang slower than Ms. Vaughan had, a slight hoarse whisper coloring his voice. Gabriel sat, frozen, enthralled.

 

_"Then you and I_   
_Came wandering by_   
_And lost in a sigh_   
_Were we."_

 

Sam gripped the microphone with his shaking hand and walked from the center of the stage to the left. He still hadn't looked Gabriel's way, playing the crowd as he was. Gabriel saw several ladies in the corner sigh and stare at Sam with dreamy eyes. The singer strolled slowly back to the center as Dean played a soft solo on the harp.

 

_"The shore was kissed_   
_By sea and mist, tenderly_   
_I can't forget_   
_How two hearts met_   
_Breathlessly."_

 

Gabriel shifted in his seat. At last, Sam looked his way.

 

_"Your arms opened wide_   
_And closed me inside_   
_You took my lips_   
_You took my love_   
_So tenderly."_

 

The air seemed to leave the room until Sam looked away. He closed his eyes and bent his head back, extending his steadier hand in a desperate gesture, clutching at the empty air as he would Gabriel's shoulders when he was under him in bed. Oh god, if this were wrong, Gabriel didn't want to be right. Every time he watched Sam was like the first time all over again. The man's voice caressed him from head to toe, sending shivers down his spine and goosebumps over his flesh.

 

_"Tenderly_   
_Tenderly_   
_Oh oh_   
_Oh oh_

_Tenderly..."_

 

The club erupted into applause and whistles. Jesus, what a performer. Gabriel downed the rest of his drink and slumped back in his chair. He fiddled with the small key in his pocket. Surely...surely, he'd say yes. Gabriel signaled for another drink as Sam started in on the next song in the set and sat, enraptured for the rest of the show.

 

 

 

 

 

At last, Sam bowed and bid his farewells. Gabriel rose, slightly unsteady, and made his way back to the club's Green Room. He had a little more to drink than he'd intended but he felt like he'd needed the extra liquid courage. Sam was smiling at Dean and saying something softly in the dim light. Dean caught sight of Gabriel over Sam's shoulder as he approached and tossed his head. Sam turned.

 

God, the smile on his face could have lit New York. Sam strode to him and enveloped him in a tight hug, nearly lifting him from the floor.

 

"Gabe, I'm so glad you made it," Sam said softly as he released him. His expression sobered. "How'd it go?"

 

"All's well," Gabriel replied. "We got the last one."

 

Tension that had been riding in Sam's shoulders suddenly slithered out. Once Abbadon had done her work, Naomi had given up the names of the Agency traitors. The names of the men who'd helped her and Alistair conducted their espionage and hunt down Sam. There'd been close to fifty agents, all gone to ground. But, with the Agency's help, Gabriel had found them all. He'd brought every single one of them back to face Morningstar. And the last one, he'd been in Seattle.

 

"So that's it?" Sam asked breathlessly.

 

"That's it. It's done."

 

Sam stumbled back just slightly and sank into one of the nearby chairs, staring in astonishment at the floor. Gabriel knelt in from of him, taking Sam's large hands in his.

 

"I just..."Sam paused. "I never thought we'd get here. No more looking over shoulders or worrying in the night about what will come tomorrow. About who we can trust."

 

Gabriel pressed a soft kiss to Sam's knuckles. "I know, sugar," he murmured. "But we're here."

 

Sam smiled wide and Gabriel finally pulled the key from his pocket. "I...got us something. Something to celebrate," he said, pressing the key into Sam's hand.

 

The singer stared at it, confused. "Gabe, what's this for?"

 

"Key to my heart?"

 

Sam rolled his eyes. "Seriously."

 

The assassin's face broke into a crooked grin. "How does a house on the lake sound?"

 

Sam's gaze snapped to him. "Gabe, you didn't..."

 

Gabriel's smile widened and he got to his feet. "I did. Wanna see?"

 

 

\---

 

 

The house he'd bought was simple. It wasn't opulent, it wasn't gracious. It felt like home. And now that he and Sam were stepping over the threshold, it felt even more like the right place to be. Sam gazed around in wonder.

 

"Gabe, this--" He gestured uselessly. "How?"

 

"A good contact and a deep pocketbook. So?" Gabriel asked, shifting in the dim light. "Whaddya say, sugar? Stay with me?"

 

He was asking more than that, and they both knew it. He wasn't just asking if Sam wanted to live with him. He wasn't only asking if Sam would say yes to the house. Sam had become his world, his home, so he was taking a shot.

 

"Are you asking if I'm staying for good?"

 

"Yes," Gabriel replied, tension and booze making him hoarse.

 

"Indefinitely?"

 

"Yes."

 

"I thought you didn't get tied down."

 

Gabriel reached out and took Sam's hand. "'S a good thing I'm not gettin' tied down then."

 

Sam looked at him, confused.

 

"Sugar, you're an ocean. I'm waxin' poetic here but you're a sea of sensation, constantly callin' me home from the wilds to rest on your shore. I'm more than ready to become a permanent resident. At this point, you oughta be chargin' me rent."

 

Sam stood breathlessly a moment and Gabriel began to doubt. Then, Sam was in his space, filling up his sight like he'd filled his heart.

 

 

 

 

 

The bedroom was dark and Gabriel could just see the lake shimmering through the window as he backed Sam onto the bed. Water reflected the light around and threw silver colors on the dark ceiling in sharp relief. Gabriel leaned in slowly and pushed Sam's knees against the bed. The singer sat heavily and kept his gaze. Gabriel tasted him.

 

It could have been strange to a passerby, to see submission evident in such a large man's posture. Gabriel liked it as much as he liked Sam's kisses. He relished the fact that he could have this, the timid and the ferocious all wrapped up into one. He eased Sam back into the pillows and made a show of undressing him, starting with his dress shoes and working his way up. His own clothes joined Sam's in a pile on the hardwood floor. The singer bit his lip.

 

Gabriel had made sure that the bed he'd bought was big. He'd wanted it to be big enough for Sam. And comfortable. It was the perfect combination of yielding and firm. Just like Sam. Gabriel kissed his way up Sam's shin. Then his thighs. He paused for a while, taking Sam's cock in his mouth as he might a piece of candy, delighting in the noise he ripped from the singer's mouth. Then, he moved up his stomach and chest and neck, through Sam's panted giggles until he planted a kiss on his lips again. Gabriel spread his legs and sat astride Sam's hips, tracing his way down the singer's chest. The skin wasn't as unblemished as it had been a few years ago. Here and there it was marked with a scar, detailing the fights they'd survived and the battles they'd won.

 

"Are you goin' to stare at me all night?" Sam asked, gripping the back of Gabriel's thighs meaningfully.

 

The assassin chuckled and rolled his hips. Once. Twice. Sam's eyes fluttered shut and Gabriel couldn't help but stare a little longer.

 

"I can't help it, Sammich," he murmured. "There's so much of you to see."

 

"Is that-- _oh_...Is that a tall joke?" he asked as Gabriel stilled his hips.

 

Gabriel scoffed. "It is _now_."

 

He punctuated his point, bracing his hands on Sam's broad shoulders and grinding their flushed bodies together. Thank god he'd come prepared. Ha, he thought deliriously, come prepared. For a moment he fumbled to focus his thought and open the bedside drawer. He pulled out two vital things.

 

Reverently, he took Sam's left hand in his and showed the singer the first little item.

 

"Do you?" he whispered. A plain gold ring flashed in the watery light.

 

Sam surged upward and latched onto his mouth, kissing him almost desperately. "I do."

 

Gabriel slipped the ring onto Sam's finger, nearly dropping it in his haste. He poured a little oil into his hand and into Sam's, wrapping their fingers around both of their aching cocks. Sam groaned and fell back, watching the gold on his hand slide along their lengths with the kind of rapture reserved for miracles.

 

"Do you?" Sam grunted as Gabriel began to thrust against him. He braced his free hand against Gabriel's thigh and moaned low in his throat.

 

Gabriel gasped and threw his head back. Oh, what a world. "Oh, _Sam_." The singer panted and pleaded, touched the assassin everywhere he could. Gabriel teetered on the edge, and he knew Sam did too. What else was left to say?

 

"I do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self-edited. If you see something, let me know!

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, this is shaping up to be a long one! The beginning here isn't too great, but I hope it's an ok segue into the action! I've fudged the timeline just a bit. Technically, the corporation that houses the Agency wasn't started until the 70s and Cohen was really winding down in the 50s, but hey, the rest of the information and addresses used should be chronologically useful! All is self-edited and posted, so if you catch anything, let me know ASAP! 
> 
> This is the first chapter set I've ever done, so I hope it's ok!
> 
> If you want to come chat, I'm at i-am-the-ass-admiral.tumblr.com!


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